


Tasgall's Angel

by HazyDaze



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:16:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazyDaze/pseuds/HazyDaze
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After years of private study under an accomplished apothecary, Serra Lillas must leave everything she knows and loves to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as a seventh year transfer. To her dismay, the only instructor capable of matching her talent is also the most hated teacher in school: the cold and cruel Professor Snape. Unwillingly taken in by a strange, seductive aura about the girl, Snape finds himself caught up in the unraveling mystery of Serra’s ancestry and a battle against a dark destiny she may have no control over. Can he step up to the challenge, or will his desires get the best of him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place on an alternate timeline starting at the end of book 5 of the series. So, although Harry and the crew are in seventh year here, nothing after book 5 has taken place. 
> 
> As far as classes and scheduling goes, I did take some liberties. After O.W.L.s, students zero in on taking classes suited for what job they will be pursuing, so I figured they might have a wider selection of classes to choose from (i.e. the regular Potions class plus the more specific classes of Poisons and Healing Draughts for those with the time and inclination to take them).
> 
> While I am aware that the Harry Potter series is British, I am not British, and if I tried to be for this story it would sound quite ridiculous, I'm afraid. So I've not really gone there. I apologize in advance to all you who are British for all the times you'll be saying to yourself while rolling your eyes, "That's not right at all." I know the spellings will be a big part of this, but I don't know the British spellings for much more than 'colour' and 'neighbour'. I decided the all-or-nothing approach was best and since I don't know 'all', I opted for 'nothing'.
> 
> I'm hoping to do weekly updates (Thursdays). I already have part of it done, so updates should be pretty regular. I'll post a per-chapter rating, if I remember. Though the full-story rating is 'explicit', this chapter is fairly tame. 
> 
> The only characters I own are the ones you don't recognize. All the rest belong to the talented JKR. 
> 
> This is my first time posting any of my writing anywhere, so please don't bite...hard, anyway. ;p

How strange it all was here in this place: a veritable labyrinth of drafty corridors, narrow rickety stairs, winding, twisting stairs, doors in the walls, doors in the floors, windows overlooking the vast forest that bordered the castle, windows overlooking the great black lake that must be a least a kilometer deep, windows looking out from rooms that Serra could have sworn were completely surrounded by other rooms.  It was too strange to be possible.  Then again, with magic nearly anything was plausible and this Hogwarts place was clearly steeped in it.

It was quickly becoming obvious to Serra that she was starting this school with a huge disadvantage — not the strict curriculum or the fact that she did not know a single other student, though those were relevant concerns.  No, simply finding her classes would prove to be a challenge in itself.

With a sigh Serra plopped down in the hallway across from one of the many pictures that adorned the walls.  This one bore an old blue robed wizard standing idly beside a large, muggle style piano.  He smiled and tilted his grey head in a genial nod.  She smiled back weakly, ran her fingers through her long dark hair, and scratched the back of her head absently.

“What floor am I on?” the girl asked in quiet exasperation, and to her surprise, the man in the picture answered back.

“Sixth floor,” he replied.

Eyebrows arched, Serra asked, “Do you know how I can get down?”

“That way” — the man pointed to the left — “will take you to a spiral staircase that will take you down to the second floor.  Just follow it all the way down.”

“Thanks.”  Serra cast the elder wizard a grateful smile and headed off in the direction he indicated.  From where the stairs landed it was not too hard to make her way to the beautiful marble staircase that led down to the cavernous entrance hall.  This she recognized, having just arrived at this very place only hours ago with her godfather and master, William Tasgall, known to the wizarding world as ‘Erus’ Tasgall, an ancient title bestowed upon the brilliant apothecary two decades before by the Minister of Magic himself.

Master Tasgall had been more like a grandfather to the young woman than anything.  He had been a dear friend of her parents for many, many years, sharing with them the ache of not being able to conceive a child.  So when they had finally adopted little Serraphina from a muggle orphanage at age four, Tasgall was nearly as delighted as the new mom and dad and had taken Serra under his wing.  Not a day went by that she did not visit him and inevitably spend hours at his little cottage playing his assistant.

Thirteen years later they had decided the time had come for Serra to experience life at a normal wizarding school before going out into the world on her own, for she had just last month come of age.  The official schooling would also be beneficial as she prepared for her N.E.W.T.s, which were crucial in applying for jobs on the outside.

Although every student at this school had started soon after turning eleven, Serra’s overprotective parents had not wanted to send her away for ten months at a time, reluctant to let go of the child they had so longed for.  The Lillas’ decided their daughter was getting quite a decent education from the highly respected Erus Tasgall and the Hogwarts acceptance letter they received the summer of Serra’s eleventh year went unanswered.  Until now, that was, and as Erus Tasgall knew the headmaster of Hogwarts personally, here she was —

— standing breathless in the vast entrance hall wondering how in the world she was going to manage this.  Never one to give up lightly, Serra surveyed the large foyer in search of her next area of exploration.  Directly in front of her were the huge oak doors that led outside.  To the right was the Great Hall, where the students had their meals, and a corridor on the left opened into several classrooms.  On either side of the marble stairs on which Serra stood were smaller staircases leading downward.  She decided on the closest, the one on her right.

It was colder down here.  The long stone hallways were lit with flickering torches — not a window in sight.  Gloom was thick in the chilly air.  Serra shortly discovered a partially opened door.  Peeking inside she saw rows of tables.  The biggest one at the front held a large black cauldron.  Serra’s heart sank.  This must be the potions classroom, but how utterly different it was from her papa’s warm sunny cottage where she had spent years brewing countless formulas by his side.

Then the new comer caught sight of something that brought a whole new interest to the bleak room.  The shadow-veiled walls were lined with rows and rows of glass jars, each containing various curiosities.  There was a heart, perhaps from a pig, suspended in murky green liquid.  That was a small frog all stretched out as though leaping in what looked like a bone preservative.  Yes — Serra saw on closer inspection that much of the skin was loosely hanging from the pristine skeleton.  This one held what appeared at first to be a long, flattened stem, but was actually an elongated forked tongue coiled among itself.  Here was a palm sized serrated leaf in amber liquid; there was the backbone of a small creature, still dangling slimy nerves; there, three great black leaches in a putrid orange syrup.

“What are you doing in here?” asked a low voice from behind her.  Startled Serra whirled around to face a tall, sallow faced man with a hooked nose.  He had greasy black hair that hung to his shoulders and cold, hollow eyes that gave Serra the impression of staring into bottomless pits.

“Hello,” she greeted pleasantly, though this wizard looked thoroughly unfriendly, “I was just admiring you specimens.”

The man’s black eyes followed Serra’s nod to the shelves she had just turned from.  Then his brows lowered in suspicion.

“Who are you?” he asked.  “Why are you not in class?”

“I’m not a student,” said Serra, unimpressed by the icy manner of the stranger before her.  “Not until next year, at least,” she amended, “and I’ve been given permission by the headmaster to look around and familiarize myself with the school.  Who are you?  Are you the potions master, Professor Snape?”

“I am,” the professor said coldly.

Serra cocked her head and examined him again, a tiny smile turning her lips.  This man certainly did fit Master Tasgall’s description of the surly Hogwarts potions master, though Serra could not say she was pleased to discover him right.  Professor Snape glared at the girl as though her inspection of him was some titanic liberty not to be taken by a lowly student.

“My name is Serra Lillas,” said Serra.  “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, I expect.  I’ll be taking all of your classes.  I am well versed in potions.”

Looking supremely unconvinced Snape said, “We shall see.  I have very high standards for my classes, Miss — Lillas, was it?  Where do you attend school now?”

“I don’t.  I was home educated.”  Her casualness did not reflect Snape’s obvious disapproval, for he sneered.

“Home educated?” he repeated mockingly.

Affronted, Serra’s hackles rose.  “That’s right,” she said in hot defiance, “and I can make anything you can.”

“Shall we see then?” said Snape with a smirk.  He crossed the room in a billow of black robes and pulled a small book from the cupboard in the corner.  Holding it open with one hand he began reading off the potions as he walked back to her.

“Formula for Underwater Breath.”

“I’ve made it,” Serra replied scathingly.

Snape did not look up.  “Draught of Living Death.”

“I’ve made it.”

“Oblivious Unction.”

“Made it.”

He eyed her over the binding.  “Wolfsbane Potion.”

Here Serra raised a brow skeptically.  “You don’t teach students to make that,” she said, “but yes, I’ve made that too.”

The professor snapped the book shut and spat, “You are lying.”

“Try me!” Serra dared.  She glared ferociously at Snape and he stared back, his eyes boring into her.  Serra was surprised to experience the familiar sensation of someone slipping into her mind.  This man was performing Legilimency on her.  He was very good at it too, she had to admit.  A novice to the procedure would not realize what Snape was doing; indeed that he was doing anything but staring them down.

“You’re very good at that,” Serra remarked.  “Obviously you’ve seen that I’m not lying.  My master is one of the foremost apothecaries in lycanthropy research; learning to brew Wolfsbane was a large part of the syllabus.”

Snape withdrew his Legilimens.  The slightest hint of interest began to show on his countenance.  “And Legilimency?  Was that also on the syllabus?”

An ironic half-smirk curled Serra’s lips and she glanced aside.  “I’ve had experience with that branch of magic.”

“Obviously.  Who taught you?” Snape asked as he returned the textbook to the cupboard.  His tone had changed somewhat, as if he had decided that this new student could possibly be worth his valuable time after all.

“My master is William Tasgall,” said Serra, perching on a stool at the nearest table.  The potions master turned slowly to look at her once more.

“Erus Tasgall?”  And when Serra nodded he said, “I was not aware Erus Tasgall tutored students.”

“He doesn’t,” Serra explained, “only me.  He’s my godfather.  I was practically raised at his house.”  She smiled in fond remembrance.  “You might say I spent thirteen years apprenticing under him.  But since this is my N.E.W.T. year he thought I should be at a real school.”

Snape sat stiffly on the edge of the table across from Serra.  “What about O.W.L.s?”

“I took my O.W.L.s at Durmstrang.”

“What was your potions grade?” Snape rephrased coldly.

“Oh!”  Serra gave a little laugh, deaf to Snape’s disdainful tone.  “Outstanding, of course.”  Serra’s eyes returned to the lines of jars against the walls while the professor examined her silently.

“Do you really find those interesting?” he finally asked.

“Yes, I do,” said Serra, as if it were unthinkable that anyone would not be utterly fascinated by dead animal bits suspended in various colors of mucus-like potions.  “Some of these are quite rare, like that albino puckrat.”  She stood and brushed down her robe.  “I’d better head back now.  It was nice to meet you,” she said, flashing Snape a twinkling smile.  He did not return it but did grant her a slight nod before she left.

 

 

After spending the night in a Hogsmeade inn, Serra returned to the huge school the next day with Master Tasgall.  They walked slowly up the long road to the castle gates and Serra shared with her godfather her thoughts about her upcoming year.

“I’m a little nervous,” she admitted to the grey haired man ambling beside her.  She had barely left her master’s side for thirteen years.

“Nervousness is not a bad thing.”  Tasgall had a strong but quiet voice.  Serra always found it comforting and today was no exception.  She tightened her arm around her papa’s and leaned her head against his shoulder.  It was a gesture he would never accept from anyone else save for the girl who had been the closest to a granddaughter he had ever come.

“What if they can’t teach me as well as you?” Serra asked absently as she admired the beauty of the tree lined road that bordered the great black lake below the castle.

“I have heard good things about the Potions master here, the man Snape,” said Tasgall.  “Albus says he has extraordinary talents.  He will be a good master for you, I believe.”

Serra gazed up into Tasgall’s wrinkled face, feeling a sudden rush of sentiment.  “You’ll always be my master,” she said in soft defiance.  The old man’s mouth twitched as he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a pleased smile and Serra planted a kiss on his leathery cheek and said with a grin, “I know you love me.”

The man harrumphed, his face growing stern.  “You are delusional, my girl.”

They were nearing the gate now, flanked as it was with large winged boar statues.

“Anyway, Professor Snape doesn’t seem nice at all,” said Serra with a scowl.

“Niceness is not a prerequisite for knowledge.”  Tasgall took a deep breath, which Serra knew was a sign of more to come.  Sure enough, he went on, “Albus did say that Snape has quite a nasty reputation, more so than I had heard.  But you must remember that harshness is often rooted in bitterness, and bitterness in deep hurt or regret.  Albus hints that Snape has both in his past.”  Tasgall turned his jade green eyes on the young woman at his arm.  “You were very lucky to have people who loved you to carry you through your heartache.  Perhaps this man did not.  Imagine where you would be in fifteen years without that, never having dealt with that pain but only burying it deep inside.  Imagine how it would petrify your heart and drain you of happiness, like living day in and day out with a dementor.”  He patted Serra’s hand.  “You are a kind-hearted creature.  If you are keen to win him over — which would make for a more pleasant year — perhaps you might bestow some of that upon him.  Don’t be too hard on the man.”  Tasgall looked toward the gate and added with a small wink, “but don’t let him walk all over you either.”

The gamekeeper, an impossibly tall and wide man named Hagrid whose face was nearly hidden by bushy black hair opened the gates and greeted them heartily.  Serra only partially listened as Hagrid and Tasgall conversed as they made their way to the huge wooden doors of the castle.  Tasgall was asking about wolves in the forest, but Serra was mulling over his words about the professor.  She wondered about Snape’s past, if indeed something had happened to create such hostility in him.

The first order of the day was a visit to the headmaster’s office.  This was a circular room at the top of a rotating spiral staircase.  It was full of small silver instruments of various natures, emitting small puffs of smoke and soft whirring noises.  There were portraits covering the walls and a beautiful scarlet phoenix on a golden perch.  In on a shelf behind the large desk sat the most worn and tattered hat Serra had ever seen.  This was used to sort first years into the four Hogwarts houses: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin.

“William, my old friend,” Headmaster Dumbledore greeted as they entered, “and young Serra Lillas, welcome back.  I trust you had a good night?”  He beckoned his visitors to sit opposite his desk in two winged armchairs.

“Yes, quite,” Tasgall said with a genial smile.  He nodded to Serra to have a seat before taking the other.  Serra’s gaze fell on the headmaster with his waist length white beard and hair.  She had examined him thoroughly the day before and he had not minded in the least.  Indeed, he seemed rather pleased with her curiosity.  Dumbledore had a kind, trusting face with sparkling blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles.  He had a very long nose that looked as though it had been broken many times.  Serra had heard a great deal about this wizard, said to be one of the greatest of the age, and was pleased to be going to the school under his care.

“Good, good.”  Dumbledore turned to Serra with a twinkling smile.  “This is an exciting day,” he said.  “Never in all my years at Hogwarts have we had the opportunity to sort a Seventh Year and I am quite interested to hear what the Sorting Hat has to say about you.”  Dumbledore stood, his long purple robes swinging around him as he carried the hat around the claw footed desk where Serra sat and placed it on her head.  “Please speak aloud,” he said.

Was he talking to her?  Serra glanced doubtfully at Tasgall, who was looking just as interested as the headmaster.  Suddenly the hat spoke in a voice that Serra heard in her mind as well as her ears.

“What have we here?  Oh, a Seventh Year … how very interesting … Lots of smarts — a prize for Ravenclaw … loyalty to grace Hufflepuff … but you will find your friends in Gryffindor!”  The hat yelled the last house name and Dumbledore beamed as he removed it and placed it back on the shelf.

“Excellent,” he said, nodding.  “Gryffindor Head of House is Professor McGonagall and it so happens that you will be seeing her momentarily to work out your schedule.  She will be most interested in you, I’m sure.”  Dumbledore smiled again.  It seemed to Serra he did that a lot and she liked it.

Professor McGonagall’s office was on the first floor.  She was a strict looking woman with black hair pulled back into a bun and square glasses.  Quite the opposite of Dumbledore, Serra wondered if this woman ever smiled.  She ushered Serra and her master into her office and immediately set to work on Serra’s class schedule.

“I see you’re mainly interested in Potions and Herbology,” she said, gazing at Serra through beady eyes.

“Yes ma’am,” Serra replied politely, sitting stiffly in the straight back chair opposite McGonagall’s desk.

The woman nodded and glanced down at the parchment in her hand.  “We offer three seventh year Potions classes: Advanced Potions, Healing Draughts and Poisons” — Serra grinned excitedly and stole a glimpse at Tasgall —  “which are you interested in?”

“All of them,” Serra said promptly, and then added hesitantly, “I can do that, right?”

“Yes, but you only need one to quality for a N.E.W.T. in Potions.  Most students just take Advanced Potions.”

“That’s alright,” said Serra.  “I’d like to take all of them.”

The professor peered at the young woman over her square spectacles.  “Have you met Professor Snape, the potions master?  Each of these would be with him.”

Serra had a feeling that Professor McGonagall was subtly implying that no one in their right mind would willingly take three classes with Snape.

“Yes, I’ve met him,” Serra replied, a subversive smile creeping over her lips.

“Very well, all three Potions.”  Professor McGonagall’s quill scratched as she wrote while she spoke.  “Both Herbology courses?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s a heavy load right there,” McGonagall said, looking up at Serra once more.  “Are you certain you can handle that?”

“Of course she can,” Master Tasgall spoke for Serra in a stern voice.  “And she’ll also be taking your Transfiguration class.”

McGonagall seemed taken aback by Tasgall’s sudden involvement but carried it well.  With a brusque nod she said, “Very well,” and returned to her writing.

“What about Astronomy?” Serra asked her master in undertone.

“Bah!” he scoffed with a wave of his hand.  “They won’t teach you more than you’ve learned already — thirteen years of staring at the stars.  If you’re afraid you’ll forget I’ll send my star atlas with you.”

Serra could not help but smile at her master’s confidence.

“Here you are,” McGonagall said tartly, handing Serra a slip of parchment.  “This is a tentative schedule of next year’s classes.  You will receive your book- and supply-list by owl post over the summer holiday, and final schedules are handed out at the beginning of the school year.  Now” — McGonagall stood and rounded her desk — “I hear you are Animagus?”  The slightest hint of excitement showed on her sharp features.

“Yes,” Serra acknowledged as Master Tasgall gave a knowing bow and raise of his head, as if expecting this very moment.  “I change into a black jaguar.”

“May I see?”

Not even a second later Serra’s figure was replaced by that of a large jet black cat with chocolate brown eyes, sitting regally with its long tail twitching idly.  The stern professor did not bother to hide her delight at this appearance and a smile turned her thin lips.

“Very nice,” she admired, strolling around Serra-the-jaguar.  “Very nice indeed, especially for such a young wizard.  How many years has she been able to make a complete transformation?”

 “Since she was twelve, I think,” Tasgall replied and the jungle cat nodded in agreement; “So about five years now.  It would have been much longer, but the ministry was adamant that she not begin her Animagus training until she reached eleven years of age.”  Tasgall clearly believed himself to be a better judge of his goddaughter’s capabilities than a bunch of stodgy old wizards shut up in the Ministry of Magic.  “Of course, I skirted that ludicrous restriction by teaching her the theory of the transformation when she was nine, and then moving into partial transmogrifications — paws, tails, that sort of thing,” he said, waggling impatient fingers as though these first few preparatory years were little more than a ministry-mandated nuisance, while Professor McGonagall looked ready to give Tasgall a stern sermon on why such strict laws existed.

“I don’t doubt you won’t be too impressed with Serra’s in-class work,” Tasgall went on, indifferent to the professor’s increasingly shocked expression.  “It’s not her best subject, not by any stretch, and mastering the Animagus shift has been the hardest undertaking of her schooling thus far.  It took Serra a full year to successfully transform — going by the ministry age guidelines, mind you — but since then she has been an invaluable asset in my lycanthropy research.  In her jaguar form she is able to communicate with our wolves better than I ever have.”

“With all due respect, Erus Tasgall,” McGonagall finally said; “for a twelve-year-old to master a complete Animagus transfiguration is an enormous feat.  Why would you discount —”

“Oh, she is brilliant in some areas — I give you that,” Tasgall interrupted; “but this is not one of them.  She had more help than you would believe.  Don’t let this one triumph fool you.”

“Even so!” McGonagall admonished.  “I’m certain you will do exceedingly well in my class, Miss Lillas,” she then said to Serra, who had jumped back to her human form.  “I look forward to it.”

 

“I think she was rather impressed with you, angel,” Master Tasgall commented later as Serra attempted to navigate the halls to each of her classes in turn. 

“And I think she was rather unimpressed with you,” Serra laughed.

“The woman needed to be set straight.  You saw the look in her eyes, like you were her next great Transfiguration prodigy.”  Tasgall shook his head indignantly and then added in warning, “but she will be on the lookout for a large black cat roaming the grounds.  You will need to be careful of being spotted if you ever venture into those woods” — he cast Serra sidelong glance —  “and I trust you will, at least once a month.”

“Of course,” Serra agreed blandly.  They had just passed the Charms corridor on the third floor.  She made a mental note of its location before heading up the next set of stairs to the fourth floor where the extensive library could be found.  She had peeked in there the day before to find it full of students quietly devouring books under the watchful eye of a thin, irritable looking old woman Serra guessed was the librarian.  One baleful gaze from this shriveled witch made Serra anxious to be gone from there as soon as possible.

“Are you committing this to memory?” asked Tasgall sharply as his goddaughter inspected a statue on the fifth floor of a rather confused looking wizard with gloves on the wrong hands which bore the inscription ‘Boris the Bewildered’.

“Yes, I am,” Serra answered lightly, ignoring his harsh tone.  She took one last look at the figure and then headed down the hall to another staircase leading still higher in the castle.  “Are you?” she shot back at Tasgall with a teasing grin.

“No,” he said simply.  “I will not be the one fumbling around this insane castle come September.”  He laid a wrinkled hand on Serra’s shoulder, which she knew to be reassurance of his faith that she could manage on her own.

The stairs from the fifth floor led almost directly to another marble staircase that took the wanderers to the seventh floor, where the Gryffindor common room was meant to be.  They passed an absurd tapestry of a wizard with a bunch of trolls in tutus that appeared to be attempting ballet, and a little later a bust of the famous wizard Paracelsus.  Serra took a left turn at the next hall and finally came to a stop in front of a large painting of a fat woman in a pink dress who was reading a book.

“This must be it,” Serra said, looking the huge picture over.  The fat lady looked over her book expectantly.

“Password please,” she said.

“This is the Gryffindor common room entrance?” Serra asked.

“Of course,” the fat lady said indignantly, preening her hair.

“Thank you.”  Serra turned to go and the woman in the picture seemed offended.

“Not even going in?”

“I don’t know the password,” Serra said with a shrug as she walked back down the hall with Tasgall.

“Of all things,” the fat lady huffed.  “Disturbing me for no reason …”  Over her shoulder Serra saw the woman duck into her book once more.

With little difficulty Serra retraced their steps down t o the first floor, and from there she followed the somewhat familiar route down to the entry hall.

“I want to go see the dungeons again,” Serra said, pausing at the foot of the stairs.  Tasgall surveyed her thoughtfully as if judging her motives.  It recalled to Serra her first meeting with Professor Snape and she said, “You know that man used Legilimency on me yesterday.”

“Professor Snape?” Tasgall asked, raising his grey brows.

“Yes.  He thought I was lying about being able to brew Wolfsbane.”

Tasgall chuckled.  “If only he knew.”

Serra blushed and rolled her eyes, remembering clearly the reason she had learned to brew the complicated potion at such a young age.  “Anyway, that’s all the more reason for me to learn Occlumency.  It’s not fair.  It’s bad enough that you do it,” she said with a disgruntled expression, “and now I’m going to be fighting that man.”

Master Tasgall stared up at the high ceiling thoughtfully.  “You may be right this time,” he finally agreed.  “I will give you lessons over the summer holiday, and perhaps Albus has someone on his staff who could continue to teach you during the school year, if you can handle it with your heavy load of classes,” he taunted.

“I think I’ll manage,” said Serra with a wry smile.

“Now, my angel, shall I accompany you to the Potions dungeon to play mediator between you and the horrid Professor Snape?”

“No, I’ll take him on myself.”

“Good, good,” said Tasgall as if he expected no less.  “I will go speak to Dumbledore about those extra lessons.”  With a nod he turned and headed back up in the direction they came from.

The dungeons were just as gloomy as before, bearing the air of ancient catacombs.  Serra came across the black haired professor in a smaller room adjacent to the Potions classroom she visited the previous day.  She stepped in the doorway with a quiet smile, rapping lightly to announce her arrival.  Snape looked up at her from where he sat at his large desk.

“You again?” said Snape, rising with phantom-like smoothness.

“Yes,” Serra said.  “This is my last day to visit.”

“A pity, I’m sure …” Snape said idly.

Serra’s jaw dropped slightly in surprise at the professor’s snide comment and a grin spread across her lips.  Snape gazed intently at the girl, weighing her reaction as if unsure if she was being impertinent.

“I’ve gotten my schedule,” said Serra, not hesitating to meet the cold dark eyes.  “I’ll be in all your seventh year Potions.”

“That is not a task many would undertake,” said Snape.

“I’m up for the challenge.”

The two faced each other for a long moment, a lively half smile on Serra’s face as the professor surveyed her with mild consideration.

“In that case,” Snape said softly, “you will not mind if I test your talents.”  His thin lips curled into a smirk.

“Of course not,” Serra replied.  “What would you like me to do?”  She was rather anxious to prove herself to this hard man, as he seemed rather anxious to see her fail.

“I want you to brew Wolfsbane for me, right now.”

Serra met Snape’s malicious leer with one of her own.  “Don’t trust your own Legilimens?” she asked calmly.

“I would prefer to watch you myself,” said Snape in smooth tones.

“You prefer to watch?” Serra repeated slyly with a slight cock of her head.

There was a flicker in Snape’s eyes, a glimmer of vague curiosity, and he replied, “Indeed.”

Serra smiled.  “I haven’t got any supplies.”

“Feel free to use my personal stores,” said Snape with a careless wave to the cupboard in the corner.  “You will find everything you need.  Will you be needing the formula?” Snape asked as Serra strolled past him.

“No, that won’t be necessary.”

This obviously was not the answer Snape had been expecting, for his forehead creased in suspicious wonder.

“Wow, these are yours?” Serra asked, her wide eyes taking in stocks of ingredients and potions stacked neatly on shelves clear to the ceiling.  As she scanned them slowly, Snape came up behind her.

“Surely Erus Tasgall has a much larger collection.”

“Well, of course, but this is still much more than I was expecting to find here.”  She inspected row after row of jars of all sizes, carefully selecting the ones she would need for Snape’s assignment.  Snape found himself appreciating his new student’s admiration of his stores, and her hushed comments only enforced her knowledge as she poured over particular ones: “… oh, wow, Banded Sea Krait venom — that’s hard to come by …”

A small pile of Wolfsbane elements sat on the floor beside Serra.  She turned to Snape.

“Shall I make it in here?”

“No, across the hall,” said Snape.  “I have a class.”  A bell sounded throughout the castle.  “It will not be too distracting to prepare it while I teach, I trust,” though Snape looked as though he sincerely hoped it would be.

“No, I shouldn't think so,” Serra replied, taking the professor's derision in stride.

“Good.  You may use my desk in the front of the class.”  Snape's thin lips curled, obviously pleased with himself for making the girl brew such a difficult concoction in front of twenty pairs of strange eyes, but Serra only nodded.

As she began setting up in the large Potions classroom she had visited the day before, students dressed all in the same black Hogwarts robes slowly began filling in around the empty tables.  They stared curiously at Serra and she flashed them all a pleasant smile before settling down to the task at hand, arranging one large cauldron and two smaller ones beside it, laying out knives, scales and cutting boards.  The dragon skin gloves Serra had borrowed from Snape were much too loose, and after a quick glance around she shrank them with a whispered “ _Reducto_ ” and began chopping monkshood root.

The tardy bell rang and Professor Snape strode in, silencing the low murmur of voices as if each one had been smothered beneath his billowing robes.  Serra stole a glimpse at the hushed students.  A few of the poor things looked positively terrified, as if awaiting a death sentence.  What a beast this Snape must be, thought Serra.  Then the professor met her eyes and Serra quickly returned to her work.

Soon all the cauldrons were stewing their separate potions and Serra's concentration was occupied maintaining each one and adding the proper amount of ingredients to each at exactly the right time.  Still, it was difficult to ignore the caustic remarks of Professor Snape as he prowled among his students like some great predaceous bat.

“Mr. Creevey, are you trying to kill your classmates with your dismal potion making abilities?” said Snape to a small, skinny boy whose cauldron had begun hissing as it emitted toxic looking sickly yellow fumes that Snape quickly siphoned up with his wand.  Suddenly the potion vanished and Snape walked away, adding coldly, “No marks for you today.”

The Creevey boy looked devastated as he gazed down into his empty pot.

Meanwhile Snape had stopped at another table, clicking his tongue as he ladled thick, fuchsia liquid from the cauldron of another student.

“What is this, Miss MacDonald?”

The girl glanced nervously between the potion and Snape, and said meekly, “Shrinking Solution?”

“Indeed …”  Extending the ladle toward Miss MacDonald Snape said silkily, “Perhaps you would like to sample this to see if it has the desired effect?”  The sinister smile on the professor's face made one wonder if shrinking was the ‘desired effect’ Snape was hoping for.  Miss MacDonald shook her head and pressed her mouth shut, petrified.

Yes, the man was proving to be a truly forbidding representation of the species.  His cruelty seemed to know no bounds, but though Serra was appalled by Snape's harsh, vindictive nature, there was an enthralling mystery about him that Serra found intriguing.  Her thoughts returned to Master Tasgall's words.  What had this man endured?  What in his past had so influenced him?  Was there any humanity at all in that hard shell?  Serra did not sense Snape to be evil, but he certainly enjoyed dominating through fear and belittlement.  It was a quality that awoke in Serra her fiercely rebellious spirit.  Just let him try to dominate her …

Without realizing it Serra had been staring at Professor Snape across the chilly classroom.  Feeling her eyes, Snape deliberately tilted his head to meet Serra's intense gaze, wondering what the young woman was thinking to cause her to look at him so.  She gave him no hint, giving an almost coy half-smile before bowing to her work once more.

But Snape continued to examine Serra over the heads of his students.  The young woman had long, nearly black hair cascading down her back.  It glinted with Serra's every movement and was in marked contrast with her light skin, pale as Snape's but creamy with a tinge of pink.  She worked diligently, the desk neatly arranged to accommodate each stage of the intricate brew she was preparing.  Snape could not help mildly approving of her skills as she moved among the three cauldrons with the ease of a dragon handler catching a mere newt.  Yes, he grudgingly admitted, the young woman had talent, but Snape refused to be impressed.  If this girl expected special treatment due to her advanced abilities, she would be sorely disappointed.  Twisting his features into a scowl Snape turned his attention back to the class.

One double potions period later, as the students were scrambling out of the dungeon, Serra presented her new professor a cauldron full of perfect Wolfsbane potion.  Snape merely glanced at it indifferently.  Serra took no offense, having been expecting just such a reaction, but the testimony to her level of proficiency was evident in that black pot, even to this severe man.

“Can you make it?” Serra asked, taking off Snape's shrunken gloves.

“Of course,” said Snape.

Serra Vanished the Wolfsbane and pushed the cauldron in Snape's direction.

“Show me.”

Snape cocked his head slightly, strangely un-affronted at being ordered about by this calm young woman.

“You don't believe me?” asked Snape smoothly.

“Maybe I like to watch too,” said Serra with a sly turn of her lips.

What gall she had to address him in such manner, thought Snape.  Of course, this Serra Lillas had not spent the last six years under his strict tutelage, but never had Snape failed to incite fear, or at least extreme dislike and mistrust, when encountering new people.  He was by far the least favorite Hogwarts teacher, and even the other staff members trod lightly in his presence.  But the reaction of this young woman was the exact opposite.  In fact, with those large, sparkling eyes and taunting smile, she appeared almost to be toying with him.  The perception normally would have provoked deepest loathing in Snape, but this woman certainly had proven herself to be more than the usual dunderheads he interacted with.  If Snape refused her challenge, she would certainly think he could not do it.  She would think him a liar for saying otherwise.

Snape stared at the girl thoughtfully.  Did it matter what she thought?  No.  Why, then, was he even considering it?

“Come on,” said Serra softly, and her voice had lost the audacious edge.  “Headmaster says you've got amazing talent.  Show off for me.  I've proven myself worthy of your teachings; now prove yourself worthy to teach me.”  Serra looked Snape straight in the eye, absolutely sincere.

There it was, Snape realized.  She would have no respect for him as her Potions master unless she saw Snape had talent that rivaled her own, and from what Snape had seen of this Miss Lillas, her desire was completely grounded.  Never had any of his students shown the capabilities this young lady had displayed, not even that know-it-all Granger.

“Very well,” said Snape, accepting the cauldron.  “Clean these utensils”  — he motioned to a stone gargoyle fountain in the corner —  “and I will set up in the back.  Someone will need to oversee my next class.  Surely you will be up to the task, with your so remarkable abilities?”

Serra was nonplused.  “I’ve never taught in my life,” she said, giving Snape exactly the answer he wanted to hear.

“This is your chance then.  Their assignment is on the board.”  (He waved his wand and suddenly it appeared there.)  “The bell will ring … now.” (And it did.)

Soon students began filing in.  Serra was relieved to see they were much younger than the previous class, probably first years.

“Be seated,” said Snape, striding down the aisle toward Serra.  “Your assignment is on the board.  Miss Lillas here will be overseeing you work.  Samples to the front desk when you are finished.”

Every pair of eyes fixed on Serra, and she smiled and gave a little nod.

“Get to work, now,” said Serra, beginning a slow patrol among the tables.

These students were making a relatively simple antiseptic serum.  The formula was easy enough, but Serra quickly learned how very little these children knew of Potion making.

From the shadowy corner of the room Snape watched her smugly, but what he had intended to be a lesson in humility turned against him when Serra once again stepped up to the challenge, and, quite unknowingly, gave Snape yet another taste of just how knowledgeable she was in his area of expertise as she quietly corrected the students’ work.

“Your flame is too high,” Serra murmured to one boy; and to another, “Chop those roots more finely before you add them …”  “Slowly, slowly,” she said, grabbing the hand of a brown haired girl who was stirring her potion with the fury of a miniature cyclone.  For not ever having taught before the young woman was doing an excellent job, thought Snape.  She did not lord her knowledge over the pupils but simply guided gently, nudging them in the right direction.

Disaster struck near the end of the period in the form of a melted cauldron.  Snape was pleased, having hoped something of this nature would happen.  The dunce of the class had managed somehow to turn his solution into a vile smelling acid that was slowly liquefying everything it touched.  Serra flew to the boy and immediately Vanished the offending potion, leaving only the globular remains of his cauldron.

“What’s your name,” she asked the anxious, straw-headed boy.

Snape paused to watch the interaction.

“W-Walters,” the boy said meekly.

“Tell me what you did wrong, Walters,” said Serra quietly.

Walters peered at the formula on the board with beady eyes, examined his ruined cauldron, glanced back up at the board, and then up at Serra.

“T-too much frog spawn?” he said hesitantly.

“Over too high heat,” Serra added, “and you forgot the yew sap.”  She tapped a tiny bowl of thick, yellowish goo.

“Oh …”  Walters looked very downcast, but Serra patted his shoulder encouragingly.

“Don’t worry; you’ll do better next time.”

There was a snicker from two tables down and a hard faced boy muttered, “Fat chance.”  A flush rose to Walters’ light cheeks.  Incised, Serra directed her wand at the offender.

“Say that again,” dared Serra calmly, and the boy’s eyes widened when no sound emerged from his open mouth.

“Now get back to work,” Serra snapped.  “Time’s almost up.”

The first year class was not a double lesson, and after the dismissal bell sounded Serra perched on a stool across from Professor Snape to watch as he completed his Wolfsbane.

His skill was immediately apparent.  Mesmerized by his fluidly precise movement, Serra observed in silence as a seed of admiration for the professor took root and began to grow.  Snape worked with ease and dexterity.  Like Master Tasgall, he seemed to sense when the next ingredient should be added, when the next stir should be made.  She had met scare few others besides her papa with such instinctive talent, and Serra was in awe.

Acutely aware of the girl’s scrutinizing eye, Snape grasped the small cauldron of pale green liquid and made ready to pour it into the other small cauldron of muddy brown.

Aghast, Serra said, “Are you really going to do that?”

He stopped, only slightly impressed that she had caught the purposeful mistake on his part, and said, “What would happen if I did?”

“It would explode,” said Serra.  “This one is water based and that brown one is an acid.”  She shrugged.  “It’d be a shame to burn off all that hair,” Serra teased lightly.  “… and your eyebrows … and your skin … and _my_ skin …”

“Shut up,” said Snape, and Serra grinned, having just been strongly reminded of her beloved master.  She did as she was told, however, and continued to watch quietly.

“Teachers are not permitted to use jinxes on the students,” said Snape a while later in reference to Serra silencing the boy who had poked fun at Walters.

“I am not a teacher,” Serra replied carelessly.  She began collecting ingredients that would no longer be needed.  “Anyway,” she added, “you’re not very nice to them.”

“I don’t get paid enough to be nice,” said Snape coolly.

“I don’t get paid at all,” Serra countered, “so how am I supposed to act?”

“Your payment,” said Snape sardonically, “will be the knowledge you glean from my vast stores of wisdom.”

Serra laughed softly.

“And your payment will be basking in the light of my sunny disposition,” Serra retorted, adding with emphasis, “five days a week.”  She flashed Snape a brilliant grin which he returned with a dark glare.

Oh yes, Serra thought mirthfully, either Professor Snape would learn to like her, or he would come to truly hate her.  Either way, what fun it would be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Harry Potter characters and places belong to JKR; only the plot and the characters you don't recognize are mine. 
> 
> This chapter is just a bit racier in parts and might merit a teen & up warning, but it's not all that bad.

A tiny jingle announced the entrance of customers to Flourish & Blotts, but the harried associate did not even glance toward the door as he shouldered his way through the masses of shoppers already inside, several of which presently scanned what Serra recognized as the same Hogwarts book list she herself had received.

“Honestly, Papa,” she complained as her master led her straight into the thick of it, “I don’t see why we’re even doing this.  I already have all of these textbooks at home.  Why waste money buying them all over again?”

“I won’t have my godchild going to school with used books looking like a pauper.”  Erus Tasgall pushed two chatting girls out of his way, ignoring their annoyed looks and grumbled retorts at his gruffness.  “Read me that list again.”

Serra examined the parchment in her hand and began reading off the titles.  Each one was familiar to her.  “Seventh Year Herbology I, Extended Edition; Delicate, Demanding & Deadly: Delving Deeper into the World of Magical Botany; Advanced Potion-Making for the Accomplished Student — oh, Papa, come on!  We finished that book years ago!”  Before she could crumple the sheet Serra’s master snatched it from her hand.

“Good grief, child,” Tasgall grunted, looking over the parchment himself.  “With all this whinging it’s no wonder Joseph and Margret want to be rid of you.”

“Or perhaps they just fear what will become of me under the tutelage of a bitter old man,” Serra countered sharply.

“As if my influence could possibly corrupt you anymore.”  They had reached a shelf of Herbology texts and Erus Tasgall selected the needed titles.  “You’re doing an excellent job of showing the patrons of this fine establishment just what a spiteful little thing you really are.”

Indeed, quite a few people were sneaking peeks at the bickering twosome, but Serra only rolled her eyes.  “Oh please, I could never hope to live up to the level of orneriness you’ve achieved.”

To this Erus Tasgall harrumphed and shoved two Herbology books at Serra.  “ _Au contraire_ , my angel,” he said, offering her the slightest of winks; “you could indeed, if you start now.”

 

A short while later they stepped into the street, now laden with a pile of brand new textbooks.  The day loomed unseasonably warm, but even with the heat the wizarding community was out in full.  Never before had Serra seen Diagon Alley so busy; Master Tasgall purposely avoided visiting these shops just before the start of a new school year for this very reason, and now Serra understood why.  Not only were they jostled continuously as they made their way to the next store, but the noise was astounding.  All around rose the babble of voices: old friends catching up, new friends making acquaintances, parents discussing the upcoming year.

Tasgall led Serra to Madame Malkin’s shop for an hour-long fitting for the standard Hogwarts robes, then to the Magical Menagerie where Erus Tasgall had one of the associates produce several different cats for Serra to examine.  She dutifully fawned over each before gently insisting that she really did not want a feline companion to care for at school.  Slightly put out, her master continued on to the wand shop to have Ollivander perform a full inspection of Serra’s wand, ensuring it to be in perfect working order for her classes.

By the afternoon Serra’s skin prickled with sweat beneath her long robe and the books in her pile of new school items had been joined by quills, several scrolls of parchment, scales and measures, a week’s worth of robes, and —

“Have you finally gone completely mad?” Serra demanded, rising from the bench where she’d been resting in the shade of an awning while Erus Tasgall perused the next store.  The elderly man lurched over to Serra and heaved nine cauldrons — smaller pots nesting in the larger — into her arms: the full size range required for the three seventh year potions classes she had signed up for.

“I must have to be spending my day with such an ungrateful wench,” he growled.  On top of the cauldrons Tasgall began stacking the other items until Serra’s head disappeared behind the mountain of supplies.

“We have cauldrons at home!” Serra cried, her voice muffled by the black Hogwarts uniforms now crammed in her face.  She took the opportunity to rub her temples against the fabric, soaking away the sweat beaded there.

“Those rusty mop buckets you use?” Tasgall scoffed, gripping Serra’s upper arm to haul her across the cobblestone to the apothecary; “the ones with the warped bottoms?  They’re a safety hazard.”

“They are not rusty!  Ugh —”  Blind to her footing, Serra tripped on the cobblestone street, nearly dropping the precarious mound in her arms.  But her papa held her tight and steadied her load, making certain all was well before continuing on.  “And they’re not warped, either,” Serra added lamely.  “You know very well that Kadin burned hearts into the bases so I would always think of him while I worked.”

“Yes, I do; Steps,” he warned, guiding his pupil up the stairs into Slug & Jiggers.  “I also know that he left several such reminders in your textbooks, which is why you need new supplies.”  Taking the overflowing cauldron pile from Serra, he dropped it with a thump onto a chair just inside the apothecary door and turned back to her, cupping one side of her face in his wrinkled hand.  “This is a new start for you, angel.  No remnants of the past need follow you to Hogwarts.”

Sullenly Serra nodded, her heart suddenly aching for the past she was to leave behind.

“Now,” Tasgall said briskly, passing the required equipment list back to Serra along with a small shopping basket, “you gather the regents you need while I stock up a bit on my own stores.”

Apothecaries held the top slot on Serra’s list of Favorite Places to Explore, and Slug & Jiggers always lived up to her expectations.  Meandering slowly down the aisles among other customers she admired nearly every product on the shelves, steering clear of the jars of creepy dead spiders while filling her basket with ingredients from the parchment list.  She gazed upward at the bundles of dried herbs, flowers, claws and feathers hanging from the exposed wood rafters, and down at the large horns lined carefully along the bottom of the shelves; navigated around huge barrels of wasp stingers and vats of lizard entrails.  Not even the foul smell of the place lessened her enjoyment.  The familiar voice conversing with her master as Serra headed to the cashier brought an even bigger smile to her lips.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Serra greeted warmly, placing her full basket on the counter beside Tasgall’s collection of items being rung up.

Professor Snape did not smile back — Serra was beginning to think he actually wasn’t capable of forming a genuine smile — but he turned and nodded genially in her direction, addressing her with a formal, “Miss Lillas.”

“Gather your things, angel, and,” in response to Serra gathering her sweat-dampened hair into a twist atop her head, “let your hair back down.”

Professor Snape cast a quick, curious glance at Erus Tasgall for such an odd command, but Serra simply stared at her godfather imploringly and said “It’s really hot, Papa.”

After a moment of contemplation, Tasgall sighed and acquiesced with a short nod.  “Severus,” Tasgall added to the black-haired man beside him as Serra, long hair now neatly bound and displaying her slender neck graced with dewy curls, tucked the newly purchased potions regents into her stack and hefted the whole huge mass into her arms again, “Do stop by the Leaky Cauldron once you’ve finished your business here so we might continue our chat.  I’ll buy you a drink.”

 

As a gateway between the magical shops of Diagon Alley and the muggle world just beyond its front doors, the Leaky Cauldron drew a great many customers.  Today it swelled with more visitors than usual and Tom, the old barman, busily served up drinks.  He tipped his bald head in Serra’s direction when she called out to him in greeting as she strolled to a table.  Tasgall waited at the bar for a butterbeer while Serra sat, pulling out her journal, a quill, and a jellybean-sized pebble.

Besides brewing potions with her master, writing was Serra’s favorite pastime.  For this purpose she carried with her at all times a small, leather-bound book, worn from years of use despite the reinforcement spell meant to increase its durability.  Serra’s journal contained not only the records of her days, thoughts, opinions, and ideas — the very content that one would be expected to fill a journal with — but also hid in its pages, more than anything else, stories that Serra had written, a majority of which centered around quite descriptive erotic encounters; stories she had combed over again and again, adding details, changing this sentence or that, fine tuning them until each was a miniature work of carefully constructed literary art.  What these stories truly meant to Serra could be understood only by another writer who had poured their very being into a well of ink and transferred it onto parchment through means of the written word.

Serra’s stories reached a far deeper level than many, however, each one based on real experiences between her and her fiancé, Kadin.  With Kadin out of her life now, Serra determined to remember as many as possible, recording them to be read and re-read whenever she wished to relive those beautiful moments.  After depositing the mountain of merchandise in her school trunk, Serra had stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes and climbed into the shower.  There under the streams of hot, soapy water another rendezvous had sprung to her mind, begging to be captured on a page of her journal.  So now, sitting in the bar-room, Serra took up her quill, folded the book out flat in front of her, and began to write.

Images from that sweet evening played in her thoughts like a movie.  The memory of Kadin’s hands, slender and rough; his lips hot against her skin; his —

“You a Hogwarts student?”

The inquiry rudely jerked Serra from her fantasy.  A young man with white-blond hair sat down beside her.  Very little aggravated Serra as much as being interrupted while writing, especially during such intimate recollections as this one.  Still looking down at her journal, she discreetly dabbed away the tears that had formed, tears that always formed when her thoughts lingered too long on her past lover.  Then, lifting her head, Serra gazed placidly at the intruder.  He was taller than her and rather handsome, she supposed — in a thoroughly un-Kadin-like manner — with sharp features and pale grey eyes.  He was vaguely familiar, but Serra could not pinpoint where she might have seen him before.

“I saw you with Snape,” the teen continued, apparently tired of waiting for her to respond to his last question.  At the mention of that familiar name Serra brightened.

“You know Professor Snape?”  Closing her journal, Serra turned toward the newcomer, now very much interested in what he had to say.

“Sure, Snape is my Head of House at Hogwarts.  I’ve not seen you there before,” he said, sizing her up a tad lecherously.  “I know I’d remember someone as pretty as you.”

Serra laughed lightly, brushing off the young man’s flattery.  “I was not aware Professor Snape held such a position.  Which house does he head?”  McGonagall headed Gryffindor, Serra’s house, and Serra found herself mildly disappointed to be out of the running for whichever house Professor Snape headed.

“Slytherin,” the visitor said haughtily.  “ _The_ house to be in.  I’m Draco Malfoy.”  The blond teen extended a hand in Serra’s direction and she took it.  No wonder he looked familiar — the Malfoy family held high status among the wizarding community and the head of the Malfoys, Lucius, contributed thousands of Galleons to a great many ministry funds as well as several private projects.  Serra had grown up hearing from her parents and papa how corrupt the Malfoy’s were, but the highly esteemed family seemed to have a serious anti-tarnish spell on their name because scandals that involved a Malfoy never stayed long in the press.

“I’m Serra Lillas.  Nice to meet you.”  Serra had to extract her hand from Draco’s, as the young man seemed reluctant to release it.  “I’ve been homeschooled all my life, but this year I’m attending Hogwarts.”

“Homeschooled, huh?”  Draco gained points in his favor by not acting as though this made Serra inferior to him somehow; rather it appeared to make the young man even more interested in her, like a new, unique specimen to be studied closer.  He flicked her a salacious wink. “I’m glad I decided to attend Hogwarts this year instead of transferring to Durmstrang.”

Serra, having taken her O.W.L.s at Durmstrang, could not imagine why anyone would choose to transfer to that particular school.  The dank dungeons at Hogwarts only shadowed the chilly stone castle which housed Durmstrang Institute, and Headmaster Karkaroff was a grade-A creep.  Serra considered mentioning this, opted against it, and instead focused on the school she and Draco would be attending.  The two chatted about what year they were in — both seventh — and Serra put up with some braggadocios talk regarding Draco’s performance on his house Quidditch team (she felt it would be rude of her to point out that she had absolutely no interest whatsoever in Quidditch).  Then Master Tasgall arrived at the table with three drinks, handing one off to Serra and casting a withering glance in Draco’s direction.  Draco took this as his cue to leave, inviting Serra to meet up with him in the evening since they both had rooms at the Leaky Cauldron for the night.

“That’s the Malfoy boy, isn’t it?” Tasgall asked gruffly as he settled into a chair across from Serra.

“Yes, Draco Malfoy.  He noticed me in the apothecary talking to Professor Snape.”  Tasgall opened his wrinkled mouth to speak again, probably some comment about Serra having ignored his command to keep her hair down and so attracting unwanted attention, but Serra quickly added, “Oh, and there’s Professor Snape now!”  Indeed, her new potions master came through the door just at that moment and Tasgall swallowed his unspoken reprimand.  Before he could change his mind, Serra had popped the small pebble she had earlier taken from her pocket into her mouth, biting down on it with her back teeth.  Quill out, journal open, she was lost again in her writing by the time Snape arrived at their table.

“You finally got that thing fixed, did you?” Tasgall asked, but his goddaughter’s only response was the slight, rhythmic nodding of her head to an unheard beat.  “She has this music rock,” said Tasgall, now addressing Professor Snape, explaining why Serra did not answer.

“You mean ‘rock music’?” Snape asked with the air of correcting a student who had just given a particularly stupid answer.

Tasgall paused in the act of passing a drink to Snape and scowled at the professor.  “I’m old, not senile,” he snapped, and Snape flushed slightly.  “Music rock,” he said again, sharply enunciating each word.  “It’s an enchanted rock.  You bite it and it plays music only you can hear.  Serra picked it up from the junk shop but it’s been broken for a while now.  She’s a whiz at potions but ask that girl to charm something and you’d think she’d never held a wand in her life.  Never mind.”  Tasgall waved a hand impatiently.  “All prepared for the start of the year, are you?  Serra’s quite excited to be studying under you.  Of course, we’ve already covered all the books on your class lists, but Dumbledore assures me you will have more challenging lessons prepared for Serra.”

Snape pursed his lips as Tasgall went on, resentment toward the new student across from him building in his chest.  The girl was busy writing in a small, leather bound book, still shaking her head in that ridiculous way muggles had when listening to their portable music players.  The school year hadn’t even started yet and already Snape’s time was being wasted on her.

“I am the only master Serra has ever studied under,” Erus Tasgall was saying now.  “She’s never left home without me by her side, and I admit to being concerned for her wellbeing at Hogwarts.”

Snape rattle off the obligatory assurance, “I’m certain she will be fine,” irritated at having to do so.  “She seems competent enough.”

“Oh, she is quite competent,” Tasgall agreed, gazing at his pupil still scratching away in her journal.  “But she’s suffered an immense tragedy earlier this year and I worry how she will handle being away from home for the first time in light of it.”

“Tragedy?” Snape repeated, wondering what little upset might count as a ‘tragedy’ to a child so coddled as this, and though thus far Tasgall had spoken in normal tones he lowered his voice to respond to Snape’s inquiry.

“Her fiancé was murdered quite brutally.”

Shocked, Snape opened his mouth to ask how, or why, but Tasgall waved that impatient hand again making clear no more would be said on the matter.

“I know Serra will be attending Hogwarts with hundreds of other pupils and learning under many other professors, but I cannot help but feel I’m turning her over into your care,” Tasgall went on, now staring straight into Snape’s eyes.  “Watch over her for me as her new master.”

Her new master?  Past tragedy or no, Snape would not take on such responsibility.  This misunderstanding must be corrected immediately.  “Miss Lillas will simply be a student of mine,” Snape stressed.  “I will not even be her Head of House.”

Tasgall refused to accept this.  “But you will see Serra every day; you will be the closest thing to a master she will have there.  She seems to admire you and I daresay you will replace me in her life — temporarily, of course.  Watch over her for me, Severus; do me this favor.”

Faced with such a pointed request from the best apothecary in the wizarding world, Snape found it difficult to respond with an unequivocal no, though he very much wanted to.  However, Serra chose that moment to drop her quill, part her lips and daintily pluck the small stone from her mouth before excusing her way into the conversation.

“Shall I order us some dinner, Papa?” she asked, tucking her journal beneath her robe and glancing around the room.  “Or perhaps we should go somewhere else.”  The pub had become even more crowded as shoppers escaped the afternoon heat, hauling bags and tottering piles of packages to whichever empty table afforded itself.  Swarms of customers hid the bar and Tom could be heard snapping orders to his young assistant.

“Yes, angel, go down to that steak and chips place we like and save us a booth.  I’ll be right there.”  Tasgall patted Serra’s hand as she stood.  Serra gave Professor Snape a small grin, and striding away she heard Tasgall telling him, “There is much more we need to discuss, Severus.  Won’t you …”

 

 

 

Evening had finally set in.  Outside, Diagon Alley emptied steadily and shopkeepers tidied up in preparation for the morrow’s rush of business.  No vacancies would be found tonight at the Leaky Cauldron, and upstairs in the first floor hall Snape stood before room 14 hoping Erus Tasgall wouldn’t be in, wanting no more undesirable chores pawned off on him in regards to Hogwarts’ newest seventh year.  But when the door opened and Hogwarts’ newest seventh year ushered Snape into the small sitting room, he could do nothing but stare at her.

The robe Serra had worn in the heat of the day had been discarded, replaced by a long, black dress that might have been nightwear.  The narrow shoulder straps held up a bodice that dipped low between the young woman’s breasts, a sight that caused an uncomfortable rise below Snape’s belt.

“Master Tasgall stepped out for a moment,” Serra explained, closing the door behind Snape.  She glided past him to take a carafe and glass from the mantle, pouring Snape a drink like a seasoned hostess.  Snape took the glass from Serra, his fingers tingling where they brushed against hers, and immediately took a swig.  The burn of fire whisky came as a welcoming distraction from the piercing awareness that the two of them were utterly alone, he a man and she very much a woman; no one around to condemn them for whatever they might decide to do to pass the time, that just beyond the doorway to his left a pair of beds waited, either one suitable for —

What the hell was wrong with him?  Severus Snape did not react like this to pupils, no matter what they wore.  These days he saw girls dressed more provocatively on shopping trips with their parents — he’d seen several today, in fact.  Yet here he was suppressing a massive hard on when faced with a young woman wearing what could have passed for a gown at a school dance.

Unaware of Snape’s stiffening plight, Serra sat across from him at the small table beside the fireplace.  Her hands rested on the arms of the chair, one leg crossed over the other.  Snape’s eyes traveled down her neck and over the curves of her bare shoulders; then he deliberately looked away, taking another large drink and examining the single painting on the wall — an unremarkable centaur print.

“I heard your conversation with Master Tasgall today,” Serra began quietly.  She had not looked away from Snape; those large brown eyes examined him as thoroughly as he attempted to examine the dull wall art.

“You heard?” Snape next turned his attention to the worn mantle, inspecting the trinkets it held with what he hoped was an adequate impression of boredom.  “You were supposed to be listening to music with that rock of yours.”

When Serra laughed the sound was so becoming Snape could not help but glance at her.  “I still haven’t figured out how to fix it yet.”  She shrugged and went on somewhat hesitantly: “Papa asked you to watch after me —”

“But you don’t need a guardian,” Snape completed scathingly, regaining his composure at such a childish turn in conversation.  “All grown up and able to handle yourself?”  It was an attitude Snape had become too familiar with, having dealt with it numerous times over his years as a professor: teenagers with the mindset that they know better than every adult in their lives, insisting they are old enough to manage themselves without help from anyone.  Serra’s hackles rose at Snape’s comment, as he knew they would.  She stood up, seemingly grievously offended, and took a step toward him.

“Erus Tasgall has mentored me for thirteen years,” Serra said, her voice low and cold as she gazed down at Snape with mild derision.  “If he thinks I need someone to watch over me at school then I accept his judgment.  I do not second guess my master.”

Heat burned in Snape’s face from Serra’s unexpected response.  Now Snape stood, rising a full head above the girl who had just chastised him in the way he had meant to chastise her.  “You have a new master now, Miss Lillas.  Shall I be treated with the same respect?”

“You didn’t seem too keen on the idea of becoming my new master downstairs,” Serra countered.  She hadn’t retreated from Snape in the least and the closeness of her body called to him, nearly as undeniable as the gravitational pull of an immense planet.  Something was very wrong here — Snape felt it in the urges he fought to subdue: to touch this young woman, to hold her, to caress and kiss her; yes, even to rip that gown off her body, spread her legs and drive his throbbing rod into her again and again until he exploded with a crux of pleasure.

The door opened, and at the sound of the latch turning both Serra and Snape turned to see Erus Tasgall step into the room.  Tasgall’s sharp green eyes took in the two of them, quickly running up Serra’s body and then jumping to Snape, standing close enough to Serra to have been dancing with her.  Snape was surprised — but vastly relieved — to find his hands still down at his sides and that his robe hid what he felt was a very obvious erection.  At the same time he was unsettled by how thoroughly unaffected the young woman with him appeared, as if she herself were completely oblivious to the sexual tension in the atmosphere between them.  Could this all have been a one-sided battle on his part?

“What is going on here?” asked Tasgall.  He shut the door — rather hastily, Snape thought — and dropped an ancient-looking tome on the tiny end table just inside the room.

“Just hashing out the details of our future working relationship,” Serra said calmly.  Snape sincerely hoped he looked as collected as his student rather than the hound dog he felt like, desperate to jump a bitch in heat.  He must have, for Tasgall didn’t look twice at him.  Instead the old wizard stared at Serra, roughly jerking his chin downward while keeping those eyes locked on hers.

“You forget yourself, girl.”  Tasgall’s voice cut like flint and Serra flushed.  “Put your robe on.”

“Yes, Papa,” Serra murmured soberly.  Without another glance toward Snape, Serra swept from the room leaving Snape to wonder what had just happened.

“Severus.”  With Serra gone, Tasgall reverted to the semi-business-like manner he’d held in the pub earlier.  “Thank you for coming tonight.  I apologize for not being here sooner; I had a last minute errand to run.  Been looking for that one for months now.”  He motioned to the text by the door.  “Serra has an impertinent streak in her — gets it from me, I’m afraid.  I do hope she wasn’t too hard on you.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” said Snape smoothly, trying not to remember the hardening effect Serra had indeed had on him.

“Good man.  You look like you could use a refill.”  Tasgall extended an arm toward Snape’s nearly empty glass and Snape noticed for the first time an enormous scar on the man’s left hand.  The warped, thickened skin covered almost the entire palm.  Noticing Snape’s stare, Tasgall flexed the hand and said enigmatically, “The perils of having Serra as one’s charge.”  He refreshed Snape’s glass and took Serra’s seat at the table.  “Now then, I would like to begin where we left off earlier.  However, I’d prefer to wait until Serra leaves for her little date.”

“It’s not a date,” Serra yelled from the next room.  Tasgall shared a furtive smirk with Snape as Serra continued angrily, striding through the doorway, her robe open down the front and flaring like wings at her sides: “You’re a rotten, delusional old man.  Or maybe you _want_ this to be a date.  Shall we marry a Malfoy into the family?”  Now Serra leaned down to pull her sandals on and Snape got a fabulous view down her front; he bit the inside of his mouth firmly, and the pain drove from his mind the lustful fantasies that had suddenly sprung up — most of them, anyway. 

“If he is the man you want who am I to tell you ‘no’?” Tasgall replied lightly in the face of Serra’s scowls.  “Serraphina Malfoy … has a certain ring to it, yes?” 

Serra glowered furiously and stuck her tongue out at her master, a tongue bearing a small silver stud.

“Don’t do _that_ to the boy,” Tasgall grumbled, leaning over the table to fill his own glass; “Then you’ll never get rid of him.”  To Snape’s surprise, Serra giggled, her glaring countenance breaking at once into a grin which Tasgall shadowed with just a twitch of a smile. 

“You’re a bit early, aren’t you?” asked Tasgall, peering at a silver pocket watch as Serra finished getting ready, brushing fingers through her long hair and gathering her journal.  “Didn’t he say 8:30?  Or do you think he’s already down there, desperately yearning for your presence?”

“Oh, most certainly.”  Serra’s eyes widened conspiratorially.  “He definitely had that air of lovesickness about him.  I shouldn’t be surprised if he’s waiting at the top of the stairs with chocolates and a bouquet.”

“Poor bugger.  Someone ought to warn him what he’s getting into.”

“Ha ha.  Did you attempt a wittiness potion again?  ‘Cause it still needs work.”  Serra stooped by her papa’s side, planting a kiss on the old wizard’s cheek.

“Shall I kiss my new master goodbye as well?” the young woman asked, dark eyes sparkling flirtatiously.  Snape’s eyes narrowed and he backed away from her slightly, frowning sternly though his brain screamed at her to do it, to kiss him full on the lips and even slip him a bit of that tongue she’d flashed earlier.

“Be gone with you, girl,” Tasgall growled, as if he could read Snape’s mind and was angry at what he saw there.  “You want to scare Severus off so quickly?  And close up that robe,” he added as Serra, giggling again, headed toward the door.

“Yes, Papa,” came Serra’s obedient response before she disappeared into the hall.

Tasgall stared after his goddaughter, all levity evaporated from his thoughtful gaze.  Snape took the moment to reflect on what an odd association this elderly wizard kept with the girl, from the callously harsh remarks to the bizarre rules regarding Serra’s attire and hairstyle.  Theirs seemed the true definition of a love-hate relationship, with fighting and insults melting into laughter at the flick of a wand.  It seemed, at least on Serra’s part, that the ‘hate’ side of the love-hate relationship rang no more true than a magician at a muggle magic show.  Tasgall’s enmity flowed far deeper, if one were to believe the rumors about the man being one of the meanest, most ornery wizards in all Europe, his unmatched potion-brewing abilities being the sole reason any sane person would chance interacting with him.  However, whatever weak spot Serra might have worn in Tasgall’s heavily reinforced armor clearly did not extend to anyone else, for any vestiges of friendliness the man held with Serra were not to be found when Tasgall turned back to Snape.

“Are you familiar with wand folklore, Severus?” Tasgall asked pointedly; “or the magical qualities of various woods and their uses in wands?  Surely one cannot become a professor, a potions master, no less, without learning such things?”

“The magical qualities of woods, yes,” Snape replied, feeling a prick of displeasure at having his teaching qualifications questioned.  “Wand folklore I am not so well versed in, but I studied it briefly.”  Snape set his glass on the table, the need for alcohol as a distraction gone now that Serra in her lust-inspiring dress was absent.  Where, he wondered, might this line of questioning be headed?  Surely Tasgall did not expect Snape to be an expert on so many subjects.

“What do you know of flying rowan?” the elder wizard continued, eyeing Snape heavily.  “You do know what flying rowan is, don’t you?”

“Of course.”  Snape’s irritation heightened.  “A rowan tree found growing as an epiphyte on another tree is referred to as ‘flying rowan’.  Wood from such a tree bears the intensified magical properties of not only the rowan itself but also those of the tree it is found growing on.  Rowan wood is said to grant special protection against malevolent beings such as demons; flying rowan would possess heightened protection, as well as integrating the magic of the host tree.”

“Correct.”  If Erus Tasgall was impressed at all by Snape’s knowledge, he did not show it.  “Now if, as Ollivander is so fond of saying, the wand chooses the wizard, what might it suggest if such a wand chose a young witch as its mistress?”

Interest peaking, Snape raised an eyebrow and examined Tasgall for any signs of foolery.  Flying rowan wands were exceedingly rare items.  “Serra?” he asked, disbelieving.  “A wand of flying rowan?”

“The epiphytic rowan of an aspen, bequeathed to her at the age of four, long before she might have dabbled with dark forces enough to merit the necessary protection of such a wand.”

“Children are not permitted to own wands until they reach the age of eleven,” Snape spat, the hole in Tasgall’s tale suddenly becoming clear.  Just what was the old man trying to pull here?  He felt a new surge of resentment toward Serra and her trickster master, and the sly expression blooming on the old man’s wrinkled face only reinforced it.

“That is the law, yes,” Tasgall admitted; “but I received special dispensation from the Ministry so that I could begin training Serra immediately after she came into my care as a student.  When you are the best apothecary the world has seen rules can be bent for you — even broken.”

Snape thought Tasgall had never appeared colder, or crueler, than he did at that moment, as if stricter rules than the Appropriate Age of Wand Ownership had been broken on his behalf before; as if he were confident they would be again.

“Tell me about aspen,” Tasgall ordered sharply, daring Snape to slip up and display his stupidity for this great master to ridicule.  Snape bristled at being spoken to like a dunce child receiving remedial lessons, but at the same time certainly did not want this man to think him stupid.

“Aspen is also known for its protective qualities, specifically concealment and shielding from both physical and magical harm.  Ancient lore says that aspen cuttings allow spirits to return from the dead, that aspens themselves operate as portals into the Faerie realm, but these attributes are overlooked in modern teachings.”

Erus Tasgall examined Snape with just the slightest hint of approval, and Snape hated that he felt buoyed by this scrap of appreciation.  He determined not to show it, gazing placidly at the old wizard across the table from him as he absently tapped his fingers on his glass.

“The rowan, imbibed with the magical properties of the aspen,” Tasgall stated slowly, thoughtfully, staring not at Snape but beyond him; “given to one little girl adopted from a muggle orphanage; ordinary in all ways save for the amazing aptitude for the brewing of potions, and that … _something_.”  Curling the fingers of his left hand in on themselves, Tasgall stroked the scarred palm, still staring past his guest in a ruminating trance.

“I don’t want to send her away,” Tasgall snapped suddenly, green eyes fixing on Snape’s black ones as if Snape had accused Tasgall of wanting to be rid of his goddaughter.  The heat and severity in his speech was unnerving.

“It’s not safe for her out there,” he continued forcefully.  “There’s something about Serra, you see.  I don’t know exactly what, but it’s there.  Something has left an aura — no, not an aura,” Tasgall corrected himself, and now the elder was so engrossed in his sermon that, had not Snape already interacted with and deemed the man competent, Snape would have been concerned for his sanity.  “It’s more like a shadow.”  Tasgall nodded, agreeing with himself on the correctness of the new word.  “Yes, like something has left a shadow on Serra — something _not human_ ,” he stressed.  “We can sense it; you’ve sensed it already, I don’t doubt.  It makes us —”  Tasgall stopped short, his face reddening, fingers rubbing furiously at the scar on his hand.  “— gives us thoughts, _desires_ —”

Snape stared at Erus Tasgall curiously; it appeared the old man was ashamed, and in Snape’s mind a light flashed, illuminating what must be going on here.  Perhaps Tasgall, watching the young girl in his charge grow and change into a shapely young woman, had begun struggling with impure thoughts regarding her; and, unable to accept this as a natural conflict that happened in nearly every such situation, Tasgall had instead created this fantasy of Serra being afflicted with some other-worldly curse that caused all men in her vicinity to be overrun with lustful imaginations.

It explained everything, of course, from the unusual strictness of dress Tasgall insisted on to Tasgall’s stringent request that Snape watch over Serra — to protect her from being taken advantage of by those poor boys at school who might unwittingly fall prey to Serra’s preternatural feminine wiles.

“So you are sending her away to avoid these … _desires_?” Snape added a delicate inflection to the word, raising an eyebrow as he said it.  The smoldering fury overcoming Tasgall at this not-so-subtle accusation blazed in his eyes as he bored into Snape’s mind and Snape jerked back, taken off guard by the sheer intensity of the other wizard’s Legilimens.  How _dare_ he invade Snape’s mind uninvited?  How _dare_ he?  Snape was about to demand just this when Tasgall shot him down with a violent, yet precisely controlled verbal trouncing.

“You are a fool.”  Tasgall spoke carefully, frigidly; having just reviewed the professor’s previous conclusions, Tasgall spat his own judgment back at Snape.  “I have lived three times longer than you, _boy_.”  The inflection Tasgall used was not delicate at all.  “I know of love, of lust; I know the fleeting heat of catching a peek of a young woman’s bosom and the hotter burn of treasuring that image in the dark of night while you’re alone in your bed and randy as a stallion in spring.”  Snape felt his face redden, both from the demeaning tone in Tasgall’s voice and the intimate moments of which he spoke — as well as from guilt for the glimpse down Serra’s dress Snape had gotten earlier, though Snape felt confident it would not lead to any follow-up nocturnal amusements.

“I also know that such thoughts can be relentlessly ignored, batted away no matter how many times they fly at you.  And,” Tasgall’s voice lowered, the old man leaning toward Snape to make absolutely certain the hook-nosed professor caught every syllable; “I recognize the supernatural power behind a lust that attacks so constantly and so fiercely that one must use physical pain to assuage it.”

Tasgall paused here and Snape couldn’t keep from glancing at that horrific scar again.  Tasgall noticed the look but did not acknowledge it.  He appeared preoccupied with examining Snape as though reappraising his opinion of the man he had chosen as the interim teacher for his dearest pupil.

“Serra is my daughter,” Tasgall finally said, lifting his chin slightly, giving Snape the uncomfortable impression of being looked down on.  “I would no sooner entertain inappropriate fantasies about her than I would strangle away her life with my bare hands.  I stress to you the need to guard her not as a covert alibi for my own shortcomings, as you so wrongly assume, but simply for Serra’s own safety.  And I send her away not because I cannot deal with this orphic mystique about her — that was dealt with long ago — but because _Serra_ needs to be free from the constant reminders of how her life was supposed to be before the death of her love.  She doesn’t want to go either, but she must.  She needs a fresh start.  She needs —”

Snape never found out what else it was that Serra needed, for at that moment Serra herself stormed back into the room, slamming the door shut behind her with an exasperated huff.  The centaur picture rattled against the wall, and all the mantle trinkets shivered as well.  Tasgall turned in his seat, attention abruptly jumping from Snape’s dressing down to his clearly irritated goddaughter.

“That spoilt, selfish, narcissistic, perverted _wanker_!” Serra snarled, each word louder than the last.  She scanned the room, obviously hoping to find something on which she could take out her anger.  Snape found the display rather amusing after the girl’s earlier haughtiness with him, but Tasgall quickly stood, evidently seeing no humor whatsoever in Serra’s outburst.

“What happened, angel,” Tasgall asked immediately.  “What did he do?”

“He read my journal,” Serra exclaimed, holding the small book in her outstretched hand as if willing Draco Malfoy to appear in the room so she could beat him with it.  “I was writing while I waited for him to show and that creepy little bastard snuck up and read it over my shoulder!”

Fully expecting Tasgall to spit out some quip about how Serra ought to have left the journal, with its apparently invaluable contents, here in their room rather than taking it downstairs where just such a thing might happen, Snape was thoroughly stunned to hear Erus Tasgall address the impudent girl’s complaint with absolute seriousness.

“What did he read,” Tasgall demanded gently; “Do you know?”

“Of course I know — he read it out loud, right in my ear.”  Serra glowered, locking eyes with her master, and Snape experienced another jolt of surprise when he realized that Tasgall was using the very same magic he had so rudely used on Snape before — peering into Serra’s mind by means of Legilimency — and Serra was granting him total access.  Even more surprising was the grave tone in which Tasgall spoke upon breaking the spell.

“You stay away from that boy, angel,” Tasgall said quietly.

Serra nodded, her anger still roiling furiously.  “As far as I can,” she agreed.  Without even a glimpse in Snape’s direction, Serra retreated from the two men’s presence, locking herself in the next room.

Snape looked at Tasgall.  Tasgall was already looking at Snape, more somber than ever.  “Watch out for him,” Tasgall stressed, and then clarified: “Draco Malfoy.  Keep that boy away from her.”

Snape nodded, though he felt none of the impending doom Draco would surely bring down on Serra which Erus Tasgall, with his oh-so-heightened sensitivities, plainly saw.  Tasgall had given a pretty speech, yes, and Snape himself had had moments of barely controlled passion during his short time spent with Serra, but his issues stemmed from too long a hiatus in certain bedroom activities and would be quickly cured by a stop at the Knockturn Alley brothel.  No supernatural lust here — just plain old biological imperative.

And a crackpot old wizard with severe over-protection issues.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Harry Potter characters and places belong to JKR. 
> 
> No warnings for this chapter; we're still in the clean parts. ;)
> 
> If any of you UKers out there spot any glaring "Americanisms" in the characters' chatter, feel free to point it out.

The days had passed too quickly.  On the morning after her disastrous get-together with Draco Malfoy, Serra had woken up to find her parents in the sitting room of their quarters at the Leaky Cauldron chatting with her papa.  Margaret, Serra’s auburn-haired mother, had had an important patient requiring near constant care, but the worst of that poor soul’s illness was past now and so she and Serra’s father, Joseph, were finally able to join their daughter and Erus Tasgall at Diagon Alley for a few final days of family time before Serra shipped off to Hogwarts and out of their lives for ten long and lonely months.

Serra loved her small family dearly, and all the more so because she remembered life at the orphanage back when she lived as a ward of the state with no one to protect her from mean-spirited children or heavy-handed adults; no one who loved her or truly cared for her.  The day the head nurse of the three-and-four-year-olds led Serra into the cozy parlor — the room where the _adopted_ children went — had been one of the best of her life.  The couple waiting in that parlor wanted _her_ , and the little-girl Serra thought they must be the most wonderful people ever.

The just-come-of-age Serra still thought this, and leaving the people who had _chosen_ Serra to become part of their family seemed an impossibility.  Not that Serra had never been away from her parents before: at least twice a year she took trips to various parts of the world.  But on these trips Master Tasgall had always been at her side.  This journey, the longest one yet, she must face alone.  The prospect made Serra want to curl up and cry like the little child she had been when Joseph and Margaret first rescued her from that institutional orphanage.

Now on the verge of goodbye Serra sat on a bench at King’s Cross, a trunk full of new clothes and school supplies at her feet, a new owl in a cage to her left and a new broomstick across her lap.  Though still early, Platform Nine and Three Quarters already held a moderate crowd of families loading their children on the red Hogwarts Express.  Serra and her mother rested near the last train carriage, as Serra planned on occupying the very last compartment for the trip.

The trip.  Her stomach churned at the thought and Serra anxiously looked away from the train.  She propped the broomstick against the bench so that her lap was free for wiping her sweaty palms on the black Hogwarts robe she wore.

The broom handle gleamed in the morning light and Serra found herself examining it rather than continue meditating on how drastically her life was about to change.  Serra’s father, upon gifting it to her, had gone on excitedly about how it was the latest model — a Nimbus something-or-other — capable of going zero to crazy fast in an absurdly short amount of time.  It had been rated in some popular broomstick magazine (Serra herself couldn’t imagine reading an entire magazine devoted solely to broomsticks) as Most Easily Maneuvered, a plus in Serra’s book since it meant she was less likely to fly into a tree if she ever decided to ride the thing.

But its other attributes were less appealing.  For instance, the broom’s ability to stop on a Knut only conjured images of being thrown off the thing; if she must own a broomstick at all, she would rather one that picked up speed slowly and stopped even slower, but apparently the Nimbus company held a different opinion on what made for a quality broom.

Serra’s father knew his daughter didn’t particularly like to fly, which was why he had thus far put off purchasing a broomstick for her.  What he did not understand — what Serra had always been reluctant to express to him in light of Joseph’s unabashed enthusiasm for all things Quidditch — was that Serra absolutely hated flying.  Speed frightened her; heights frightened her, and heights viewed while speeding along at a breakneck pace, ensuring a violently terrifying death which one could contemplate for many seconds as one fell back down to solid ground, screaming and helpless after losing one’s sweaty grip on the shiny handle of a brand new Nimbus, were an absolute nightmare topped only by spiders on Serra’s list of Things to be Avoided At All Cost.   But Serra was headed to Hogwarts, and Hogwarts had a much-celebrated Quidditch tournament among the Houses, and Serra’s father had finally seen his opening to draw his little girl into the exciting world of flying sports.  Serra had showered her dad with all of the expected hugs and kisses for the gift, but she knew full well that it would spend its year at Hogwarts as a playground for dust bunnies under Serra’s bunk.

Being the more practical of Serra’s parents, her mother had bequeathed Serra with the creature occupying the bench with her — her very own fine-feathered mail carrier.  Arguing with Margaret had always been easier than disagreeing with her father, but the protest Serra started to voice against this new useful pet — that she already owned an owl and didn’t want another one — fell flat when Serra realized that she did not, in fact, already own an owl.  Her parents did, of course: a tawny barn owl named Frigg with a white heart-shaped face and a gentle nature; but the owl Serra always thought of as ‘hers’ actually belonged to Master Tasgall.  Tasgall’s was a grey striated bird whose beak hid behind a mass of feathers, giving him the look of some sort of tentacle-mouthed alien fowl.  Serra had affectionately nicknamed the fellow ‘Dracula’ for the way he tended to shrink up when threatened, drawing one wing across his body like a vampire cape to cover his underbelly while his birdie-head contorted into an evil-looking glare.  While Dracula appeared fearsome in this state, he actually bore a rather shy and docile personality.

In contrast, the owl in the cage beside Serra was cross and irritable; as a human he would have trumped even Tasgall in crabbiness and out-and-out hostility.  He was a beautiful bird, Serra had to admit: a black and white Strix owl with a white belly striped with black, and shiny black back and wing feathers which also crept up his head.  Smaller speckled feathers outlined the black around his beak and huge onyx eyes, fading out at his little owl temples and reappearing to curve downward from his forehead like two perpetually scowling eyebrows.  Serra felt certain that those angry birdie brows had been hand-picked to fit the owl’s crotchety personality by some keen avian imp.  In memoriam of her sweet Dracula, whom she’d been forced to leave back at Master Tasgall’s house, Serra spitefully named the new owl Vlad the Impaler.

Just now Serra flicked dried cricket treats through the cage bars at Vlad, who angrily snapped them from the air with loud clicks of his beak.  When one treat pelted the bird’s belly, Vlad hooted derisively at his new owner, and Serra, threatening to pluck him bald and turn his feathers into a pillow if he didn’t shut up, fished the dead bug from the bottom of the cage and threw it at him again.

More than ever Serra burned inside with resentment at having to leave home for this boarding school, and the feeling only increased when her mother, sitting beside Serra opposite the petulant owl, began a running commentary of people-watching.  Normally Serra quite enjoyed this, as her mom made witty, humorous comments on the wild hairdos or appalling fashion styles of passers-by (all in good fun, of course, as neither Serra nor her mum possessed the slightest sense of haute couture).  However, since arriving at Diagon Alley a few days before, Margaret’s people-watching comments instead focused on all the handsome school-aged males milling past, pointing out their pleasing attributes and pressing Serra to voice her own opinions on the suitability of each one.  Clearly her mother expected Serra to find a new love interest during her stay at Hogwarts, like some academic version of that muggle fairytale of Cinderella going to the ball to meet the prince and live happily ever after, and her mom was the fairy godmother determined to make it happen.

Well, Serra was not Cinderella, and no Prince Charming awaited her at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and the _real_ ‘fairy godmother’ of that story muggles were so fond of telling their little girls to fill their heads with unrealistic expectations of everlasting love — just a regular old witch after all — had been hauled to trial before the Wizengamot and currently rotted away in Azcaban for performing magic in front of a muggle.  And said muggle, instead of snagging Prince Charming, had alienated the poor man with her ravings of magical dressmaking and carriages transformed out of gourds.  So much for ‘happily ever after’.

Serra sighed quietly, jamming the baggie of owl treats into her pocket.  None of the boys her mother pointed out sparked anything in Serra.  She looked, but she felt nothing for them whatsoever — no quickening of pulse or  glimmer of curiosity, not even for the brawny young man with the blue-green eyes and thick lashes that stood out so startlingly against his golden tanned skin, a combination that had caused Serra to first become enamored with Kadin so many years ago.  Of course, that was the problem: no one could possibly live up to Kadins memory.  Serra simply could not imagine herself with anyone else and begrudged the fact that her family wanted her to move on.

From the crowds on the platform Serra’s father and godfather appeared.  Joseph’s face displayed a silly grin and he held up yet another package.  His giddiness mirrored that which he’d shown before presenting Serra with the new broomstick, and Serra immediately began steeling herself to receive more Quidditch-related gifts — maybe a full set of Pride of Portree robes, Scotland’s team of which Serra’s father had been a fan for as long as Serra could remember.

When she opened the package, though, she found not a pile of deep purple fabric with the customary golden star but a large black leather case.  Across the side facing toward Serra were dozens of small silver knobs and metal-bracketed labels, rows upon rows.  Gripping one little knob, Serra pulled it up, revealing it to be the stopper of a glass vial, one of more than a hundred.  The vials were only half as deep as the case; the backside contained a duplicate set.  Serra stared up in wonderment at her father’s enormous smile and saw that even Tasgall’s lips were turned up slightly.

“You were concerned about how much space your potions and regents took up, and how you’d ever keep them organized in our old miniaturizing pocket,” Joseph explained excitedly, pulling several apothecary jars out of a second bag; “so William helped me pick this out for you to take instead.  Here —” he put a large wad of gillyweed in Serra’s hand “— put it in one of them.”

Obediently Serra withdrew one of the new vials from the case and carefully took the top off.  Peering dubiously into the tiny phial, its opening no wider than her finger, she acted to drop the mass of ropey greens into the container.  To her delight the gillyweed shrank rapidly and disappeared through the mouth of the jar.  It reemerged just as easily when Serra upturned the vial into her hand.

“Each bottle will hold up to thirty-two ounces, except for the top row on either side which hold sixty-four,” Serra’s dad touted energetically.  “They’re practically dripping with charms, too: anti-shatter, preservation, anti-tip and slide proof, so if you lean the case over they won’t fall out all over the place … what else?”

“This is amazing!” she exclaimed, truly enchanted.  “Thank you so much!”

“I took the liberty of augmenting the meager supply you packed,” Tasgall added gruffly, motioning to the pile of regents Joseph had unloaded.  “And you’ll be able to mail order whatever you like while you’re there, too, so at least you won’t be completely devoid of quality components.”

Setting aside the case, Serra jumped up and threw her arms around her papa, recognizing the harshness in his voice as the only way he could express his heavy heart at having to send her away.  Her eyes prickled with tears as she hugged him fiercely and he hugged her back just as hard.

“Hey, now, it was my idea,” Joseph laughed, spreading his arms for his daughter.  Serra laughed as well and turned from Tasgall to her father, burying her face in his warm chest and breathing in the familiar scent of his aftershave.  When a sob broke from her throat, Joseph held her tighter.

“Come on, now, big girls don’t cry,” he said, sniffling himself.

Serra felt her mother’s hands on her back.  Margaret’s cheeks were already wet with tears when her turn came to hug her daughter.  She spoke softly into Serra’s ear, gentle words of encouragement and confidence, and Serra knew for sure and certain that if she came back home ten months from now unattached to any of the many young men Margaret had pointed out and still heartsick over her dead fiancé, her mother would still be there loving her unconditionally.

Finally Vlad, offended at such overt displays of affection, began hooting loudly and repeatedly from his cage, effectively ending the tearful goodbyes.

“Oh, yes, I got you one more thing …”  From beneath his robe Serra’s dad pulled a folded purple cloth, and when he draped it over Vlad’s cage Serra giggled at the gold star displayed on the front.  The Portree Prides were being represented after all.

“Take care, honey,” Joseph said fondly.

“And send us owls every chance you get, dear,” her mother added.

“I will.  I love you both.”

Tucking her new storage case and broom under her arm, Serra grabbed her trunk in one hand, hung the bag of regents over her other arm and hooked Vlad’s covered cage under the fingers of her free hand.  So laden, she trundled to the scarlet steam engine that waited to carry her off to a new start.

Before Serra stepped aboard, Erus Tasgall, who had walked his goddaughter to the edge of the platform, caught the young woman’s cheek in his scarred palm and leaned over to give her a brusque kiss on the forehead.

“Love you, angel,” he muttered hoarsely.  His brilliant green eyes were glistening and Serra had to turn away quickly to avoid breaking down all over again.

“Love you, too, Papa,” she whispered, and with one last smile to her dear master, Serra boarded the train.

 

The few students in the compartments of the last carriage looked curiously at Serra as she passed.  Selecting the very last cabin, she scooted in and dropped her load.  The chaos outside increased ten-fold when a shrill warning whistle sounded; all up and down the train could be heard excited chatter, hailing calls among friends, last-minute send-offs from parents and siblings, and a symphony of owl cries to which Vlad irritably added his own song from under his ‘Prides’ shade.  With a lurch the Hogwarts Express rumbled slowly away from the platform.  Past the window flew hundreds of faces waving goodbye.  Serra’s family was not among them; she knew they had Disapparated shortly after Serra boarded the train, not wanting to prolong the already agonizing farewell process.  Still, Serra watched until the faces were replaced by houses rushing by; then she went back to the pile of luggage.  Might as well get on with it.

Before transferring her trunk to the luggage rack, Serra rummaged around inside, shoving various objects inside the blue tartan miniaturizing pocket her parents had loaned her to make space for her new apothecary case and extra regents.  She crammed the broomstick on the upper rack as well and had only just gotten settled on one of the two soft couches lining the compartment when a young man stepped in from the aisle to join her.

“Well, well,” Draco drawled lazily.  “Looks like it’s just you and me.  Thanks for saving us such a cozy private room.” He sat uncomfortably close to Serra, sharp features alight with a jaunty grin.  “Written any interesting diary entries lately?”

“You never stop, do you?” Serra sighed with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

“Who needs to stop?  I can go as long as you want, sweets.”  Draco rubbed his shoulder against Serra’s and she scooted further down the seat.  Surely this couldn’t be the last compartment with any space available.

“Lovely,” she cooed sweetly, her saccharine voice morphing to venomous loathing; “go now.”

“Aw, don’t be like that.”  Draco scooted along too, draping an arm around her shoulders this time and leaning closer so that his breath tingled hot in her ear.  “It’s a long ride; you can spend it on your knees, sucking my dick while you play with your clit,” he murmured, butchering with his own crass words the short excerpt he’d read from Serra’s journal.  He dipped his head, moving as if to kiss her.  Another student appeared at the doorway of the compartment just as Serra drew back furiously, curled her fingers into a fist, and punched Draco’s face with all the strength she could summon in such a tight space.

The new young man, a rather skinny bloke with wild black hair, gave a single, barking laugh and drew his wand, pointing it at Draco’s head.  Jaw agape in shock from Serra’s rebuttal, Draco jerked around, whipping out his wand.  A flaming patch shone on his pale cheekbone where Serra’s knuckles had made contact.

“I think that was your hint to leave, Malfoy,” Serra’s defender said icily.  On the bench, Serra glanced briefly at him, too preoccupied with being harassed to recognize him; for otherwise she surely would have.

“Fuck off, Potter,” Draco sneered.  “Nobody asked you.”

“No, but she made it pretty clear she doesn’t want you here, and I don’t particularly want you here either.”

Draco stood up, still glaring, and edged toward the door.  Staring up at him stonily, Serra took out her own wand and aimed it at the blond teen’s chest.  Wand work was not her forte but Serra knew a few hexes she would have gladly used on him just then.  Unfortunately, Draco chose that moment to wise up, sidling out of the compartment with his eyes still fixed on the other male until he was out of sight.  Only then did Serra’s new visitor tuck his wand into his back pocket.  He glanced at Serra.

“Good shot.  He’s a real ass, that one.”

Serra sniffed in agreement, rubbing her sore knuckles.  “Too right he is.  Thanks for stepping in when you did,” she added as the young man ducked into the corridor momentarily to haul in his trunk and bird cage holding a beautiful white owl.

“No problem.  Mind if my friends and I join you?”

When Serra nodded affably he tucked away his trunk, and Serra took the time to examine him more fully.  He wore loose muggle-style jeans and a tee-shirt, and his dark hair was so unruly Serra wondered if he had bothered to brush it at all today.  Then, as if he’d noticed her inspecting his mane, he quickly combed it down with a hand.  Multitudes of fly-aways popped right back up, and Serra decided it probably wouldn’t have lain flat even if he plastered it with triple coats of Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion.  Giving it up as a lost cause, he sat down across from Serra.

“I’m Harry.”

“Hi, Harry,” Serra said with a smile she hoped he wouldn’t realize was actually directed at his misbehaving cowlicks.  “I’m Serra.”

Suddenly a connection flashed in her consciousness, and the recognition she’d missed earlier jumped to the forefront of her mind: Draco had called this bloke ‘Potter’.  That would make him —

“Wait — Harry Potter?  _The_ Harry Potter?”  Serra could not help the amazement in her voice; she’d grown up hearing about Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.  He was the only person ever to have survived _Avada Kedavra_ — the killing curse — thrown by Voldemort himself at Harry when he was just a baby.

Harry managed a chagrined smile and Serra immediately wished she could take back that last exclamation.

“Crap, I’m sorry.  That was stupid, wasn’t it?”  Heat crept up her slender neck and colored her face.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Harry injected quickly.  “I’m used to it, really.  Here, you can check out my scar and everything.  Look —”  He brushed the hair back from his forehead, giving her a clear view of the zigzagging stripe that marked the spot where Voldemort’s curse had struck him as a baby.

Serra, wishing she could be casual enough to act like it wasn’t _that_ big a thing (too late for that, she thought, humiliated), did indeed glance up to see in real life the lightning-shaped scar she’d seen only in pictures and caricatures.  She stopped just below it, however, when, for the first time, she met the gaze of the young man who had boldly stepped in against Draco like a medieval knight helping a damsel in distress.

“Your eyes …” she murmured softly.

“Uh … they’re just like my mother’s,” Harry said surprise lacing his voice.  Serra understood his train of thought: how could this girl, no older than him, possibly have known his mother?  Of course Serra knew of Lily and James Potter, Harry’s parents who had died the very night he received his famous scar, but any genetic likeness to them was the furthest thing from her mind right then: though shaped differently, Harry’s eyes were the exact shade of green as her papa’s.  Looking into them she could almost see Tasgall’s wrinkled features and wiry grey hair.

“They’re the same color as my master’s.”  Smiling while homesickness splintered her heart, Serra quickly turned to the window, swallowing hard to be rid of the lump in her throat and trying to appear interested in the scenery flashing past.  But looking beyond the glass only served to remind Serra that this train was carrying her far, far away from her papa, whose startling green eyes were mirrored so perfectly in the youth across from her; far from her parents, her home.  And she wouldn’t return for nearly a full year.

As if sensing her ache and wanting to give her privacy, Harry looked around the compartment, anywhere but at his travel companion.  This action on his part caused a stubborn pride to well up in Serra’s chest.  It probably struck him as strange, the possibility that Serra might be struggling with homesickness, she thought resentfully; after all, this family separation was a yearly occurrence for him.  Well, just because Harry Potter didn’t seem to mind leaving home did not mean Serra had to be okay with it too.  But neither would she allow him to see just how much it pained her.

Taking a slow, deep breath to settle her thoughts, Serra looked back at Harry and asked calmly, “So where are your friends?”

“Oh — uh …”   Harry glanced back at the empty doorway.  “Well, I was actually just supposed to be saving seats for them.  Ron and Hermione — er, they’re my two best mates — are Head Boy and Girl so they’ll be up front with the Prefects for a bit, I expect.  My girlfriend Ginny is a sixth year Prefect, so she’ll be there, too.  And I don’t know where Neville and Luna —”

“We’re here,” a brown-haired teen gasped from the corridor.  Serra assumed this to be the aforementioned Neville, since Luna sounded like a feminine name.  He dragged in two trunks and after him a dazed-looking girl also entered.  This must be Luna, although from the vague expression on her face Serra wondered if maybe she had simply turned into the wrong compartment by mistake.

“Congratulations on making Quidditch Captain, Harry,” the new girl said, taking a seat beside Serra (apparently she’d gotten the right compartment after all).

“Yeah, congrats, Harry,” Neville chimed in from behind Luna where he was tucking away their trunks.  “And Ron got Head Boy!  Hermione was a shoo in, of course, but Ron …” Grinning, Neville gave a massive shove on the one trunk to make room for the other.

“I don’t think Ronald will make a good Head Boy,” Luna said matter-of-factly, pulling out rolled up copy of _The Quibbler_ from her robe.  Such a blatant, unflattering comment, but none of the others in the cabin seemed particularly perturbed.  “He’s not very nice or helpful to the younger students.”  Luna spoke lightly, as if commenting on the weather, and then buried her head in the magazine without waiting for a response.  Already Serra thought this girl might be the strangest she’d ever met.

“I think he’ll do alright.”  Neville sat down beside Luna, leaning forward to see past her to Serra.  “Neville Longbottom,” he said smiling easily.

“Serra Lillas.  It’s nice to meet you.”  To her right Vlad gave an angry hoot.  Serra’s expression soured, but Neville only peered further down.

“That your owl?” he asked curiously.  On the opposite seat Harry’s pretty white owl hooted also, her amber eyes fixed on the covered cage of the other bird.

“Yes,” Serra said through pursed lips.  She lifted the Prides drape to reveal the black and white owl inside, his speckled eyebrow-feathers giving him a fierce glare as he gazed around the compartment.  “Meet Vlad the Impaler.  Isn’t he lovely?” she asked dryly.  “He’d make an excellent stuffed specimen.”

“Hey, he’s better than my toad,” Neville said, laughing as he pulled a large, greenish-brown toad from the pocket of his robe.

“I’ll trade you,” Serra said promptly, dropping the cover back over Vlad.  Both Harry and Neville laughed now, obviously mistaking her offer as an attempt at humor.

“So, you’re new here, right?” Harry finally asked Serra, and when she nodded he added, “You don’t look like a first year; are you a transfer student?”

Before Serra could answer they were all distracted by a loud commotion from the corridor, what sounded like a cat fight accompanied by apoplectic hollers.

“Get — off — you — bloody — git!”

“That sounds like Ron.”  Neville glanced at Harry concernedly and the two of them stood just as a tall, lanky redhead fell in from the aisle, struggling to carry a birdcage while being scaled by a huge, orange cat.  This was Serra’s first introduction to Head Boy Ronald Weasley.

The cage in Ron’s hand fell and rolled between the seats, scattering a confetti of feathers and bird droppings, and the poor owl inside the cage — a tiny, fluttering, puffball Scops — hooted shrilly as it bounced about its prison.

“Here, let me —”  Harry seized the writhing feline, extracting claws from his friend’s back while Ron spouted a stream of expletives about what he wanted to do with the animal.  Serra stared on, her eyes wide at the sudden pandemonium and the rather colorful curses filling the air just now.

“Grab his basket!” Harry ordered Neville, trying to scruff the frenzied cat.  Straightaway Neville darted into the corridor and returned with a woven, lidded basket.

“This,” Ron declared heatedly, grabbing the cat from Harry and attempting to force it into the basket, “is the _worst_ ” — he shoved with his knee, bowing the animal’s back down even as all four paws dug into the rim — “ _pet_ ” — one by one, Ron pried each curved claw from the wicker — “ _EVER_!”

Finally overwhelming the hissing mass of fur, Ron crammed it down in the basket and slammed the lid on top.  “Hermione owes me big time!  Some damned third year has a bleeding _monster_ bird down there,” he complained to Harry, collapsing in a sprawl on the bench.  “Thing must’ve been over a meter tall — Hagrid would _love_ it.  Crookshanks took one look at it and went completely bonkers.”

Serra gazed at the newest cabin occupant amusedly.  He had blue eyes and freckles, and despite the bedlam hailing his debut — or perhaps because of it — Serra liked him immediately.

“SHUT UP, PIG!” Ron suddenly bellowed to the still screeching owl.  He grabbed the cage with such force that Serra shrank back, expecting it to be flung against the wall, but Ron only set it on the bench and dropped beside it, huffing and covered in sweat.

“Stupid bugger,” Ron grumbled, directing his lessening rage at his tiny owl now.  “I take that back; _this_ might be the worst pet ever.”  He glowered at the bird, which had already recovered from the tumble yet still zipped around the cage squeaking like a manic bat.

“Let’s put him in here,” Serra suggested, motioning to the Portree Prides bedecked cage at her side where her own owl now hooted angrily once more.  “Maybe he’ll annoy my owl to death.”  She grinned darkly, a look Ron matched.

“Maybe your owl will eat my owl,” he added hopefully.

“He probably will.”  Serra grumbled, casting Vlad a look of black contemplation.  Then she brightened.  “Hey, maybe your owl will poison my owl and they’ll both die!”

“Brilliant!” Ron beamed.  “What’s your name?”

Serra introduced herself yet again, this time able to clarify that, yes, she was new but not a transfer from another school.

 “I’ve been homeschooled all my life,” she explained; “but for seventh year my parents decided it would be best to send me here.”

This fact seemed to peak their interest at once.  Serra wondered if in all their six years of attending Hogwarts a student had transferred in, let alone a student who had been homeschooled.  Harry, at least, looked like he’d never realized wizards even homeschooled at all.

“Did you have to give up your membership in the Wizard School Rebellion League to come to Hogwarts?” Luna suddenly asked intently, popping up from behind her magazine.  “Or are you spying for them?”

“Did I — what?”  Serra replayed the words in her mind several times trying to make sense of them, and finally looked around at the others seeking reassurance that she really had heard what she thought she had heard, and perhaps some hint as to whether or not she was actually supposed to answer.  “Is she serious?”

Across from Serra Harry nodded, choking back laughter.  Beside him Ron was shaking, a hand pressed firmly over his nose and mouth, and Neville had doubled over in silent sniggers.  Relieved to discover she wasn’t the only one who found this line of questioning absolutely absurd, Serra turned back to Luna, who went on, totally unaware of the humor the others found in her statement.

“It’s common knowledge that the WSRL keeps strict tabs on its members since ministry-schooled wizards are considered brainwashed and corrupted.” She continued staring at Serra docilely and added, “You don’t seem like a spy.”

“Uh … thanks … You don’t seem brainwashed and corrupted,” Serra replied somewhat dubiously.

“Thank you.”  Luna smiled dreamily, retreating behind _The Quibbler_ again.  For a moment Serra eyed the girl uneasily, sincerely hoping the wacky blond’s schedule kept her far from Serra throughout this school year.

Harry cast Serra a reassuring grin and then turned to Ron.  “Don’t you have Head Boy stuff to do?”

“Eh, Hermione’s got it covered.”  Ron shrugged, still slouching lazily while flipping his wand between his fingers.  “Her cat tried to skin me alive — I think that deserves some recovery time. Say” — Ron sat up excitedly, changing the subject — “did you all see Malfoy?”  ‘Malfoy’ seemed to be this crowd’s preferred title for Draco.  Their collected opinion of him matched Serra’s own, a point in their favor as far as she was concerned.

“He was in a right foul mood,” Neville nodded, his expression darkening.  “We saw him jinx a first year for tripping in the aisle outside their compartment.”

“Did you see his face?” Ron went on.  “Nasty bruise right on the cheekbone.  I bet that’s why he’s so angry.  Wonder what happened to him.”  Ron grinned with satisfaction.  “Whatever it was, I wish I could’ve seen it.”

“That was Serra,” Harry laughed, gesturing toward Serra.  Neville and Ron looked at her too, plainly impressed, and she shrugged, not bothering to suppress a devious smile.

“No kidding?” Ron demanded, his eyes alight.  “What happened?”

“He wouldn’t leave me alone, so I hit him,” Serra said simply, and Ron howled with laughter.

“Bloody brilliant!”  He clapped Serra on the back, causing her to flush brightly, and then turned to Harry.  “I like this one; we’re keeping her.  Cracked Malfoy right in the face!”

Serra chuckled quietly at Ron’s exuberance.

By the time the tea trolley came by a couple hours later Serra had relaxed considerably.  Two more girls had joined the now cramped cabin — Harry’s girlfriend Ginny, who was also Ron’s sister, her long, red tresses matching his perfectly; and Head Girl Hermione, Ron’s girlfriend and owner of the ginger cat that had mauled him.  Though the couplings caused a deep pang in Serra’s heart and brought yet another lump to her throat, she successfully fought back any emotional show.  There’d been enough of that for one day.

The two new girls differed greatly from Luna in that they were both completely sane.  While Serra was not looking for a new circle of friends, she thought there to be a high probability they would actually get on well.  This school thing might not be so bad after all.

 

 

 

Night closed in around Hogwarts.  The ceiling of the Great Hall slowly turned an inky black color and twinkling stars appeared.  From his place at the High Table, Severus Snape gazed over the four house tables and up past the hundreds of floating candles lighting the hall to stare at those stars.  Beside him Professor Sinistra chatted with the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, a young man by the name of Giles Prelati.  Prelati looked as if he’d only just left university himself, and Snape knew Dumbledore had been reluctant to hire Prelati, not only because of his age but also because of his rather macabre areas of expertise: Necromancy and Demonology.  But the fresh-faced youth had been the only candidate willing to accept the position — rumored to be cursed, and a rumor backed up by the fact that since Snape began teaching at Hogwarts seventeen years ago no Defense Against the Dark Arts professor had taught for more than a single year, and sometimes less than that, due to one unforeseen incident or another.  A few of the past professors had even been killed.  Snape idly wondered to what ruin this new young fellow would come by the year’s end.

A low roar of excited conversation suddenly rumbled at the back of the Great Hall, marking the arrival of students.  Now to begin again, Snape conceded bitterly: another year of attempting to impart knowledge to a lot of rowdy, thick-headed children.  Already they were flocking in and dividing up among the tables, laughing and messing about as they talked about their summer holidays and the upcoming semesters.  The noise was outrageous.

Scanning the hall, Snape picked out Draco, arm in arm with his girlfriend Pansy Parkinson and sporting a massive bruise on his cheek.  Snape made a mental note to dock a significant chunk of house points from whoever had done that — Potter being the likeliest candidate.  Always a pleasure to dock points from Potter.

Snape lifted a hand in acknowledgement when the Malfoy teen nodded in his direction, and then continued perusing the crowds pouring in.  There was Potter cavorting happily with his friends — still dating the one Weasley girl, Snape saw with a vicious stab of jealousy.  Not jealousy over the girl, of course, but over the insufferable boy’s popularity — just like his father James, with whom Snape had held a deep enmity back when they had attended Hogwarts together, especially after James began dating the woman Snape had been in love with.

Clenching his jaw bitterly, Snape looked elsewhere just as Potter glanced up at him.  He would see Harry in class soon enough, thanks to the headmaster’s insistence that Snape alter his rule that no student getting anything less than an Outstanding O.W.L. in Potions continued on to Snape’s advanced classes — a change done purely for Potter’s benefit, Snape had no doubt, which made it even more intolerable.  Snape had no desire to see those jewel-green eyes, _her_ eyes, in the face so remarkably similar to that of Snape’s most hated rival — a blasphemous combination that would daily remind Snape of what he had lost and James Potter had gained.

Finally all the students sat at their respective house tables, and Snape found one specific student missing, even realized he’d been searching just for her though he would not have been able to say why he wanted to see the girl who recently became the thorn in his side.  Just the thought of the little wench caused Snape to bristle.  Yes, he disliked her already with her teasing grin and pretentious attitude, and he liked even less Dumbledore’s recommendation from that very morning suggesting that Snape prepare extra, after-hours lessons for the girl as well as altering her in-class assignments.  With such a high maintenance pupil in his charge Snape felt the curse of the Defense Against the Dark Arts position had migrated to his own.

Professor Flitwick tottered in front of the staff table to perform his duty of placing the Sorting Hat before the student body.  The barrage of chatter assuaged at this subtle signal.  Moments later the doors of the Great Hall opened again and Professor McGonagall marched in leading the line of first years up to be sorted.

And there she was, striding gracefully beside McGonagall: Serra Lillas, Snape’s newest irritation.  She wore a blank expression, staring ahead as if she did this sort of this every day and it bored her.  But when Serra met Snape’s gaze at the staff table, her face brightened and she smiled at him like they were old friends; Snape looked away.  From the corner of his eye he saw this only served to broaden her grin.  Obnoxious thing.

The train of first years, McGonagall and Serra at the head, filed between the High Table and the four house tables.  Serra’s gaze reverted back to the straight-ahead stare, but she still wore a tiny, satisfied smile; the look of one hiding an amusing secret.  And unbelievably, as she glided past, Snape heard the softest of exclamations from his right, where Professor Prelati perched on the edge of his seat all but ogling at the girl.  Upon turning for a better look, however, Prelati’s expression was quite passive, and Professor Sinistra on Prelati’s other side appeared not to have heard a thing.  Had he only imagined the outrageously inappropriate response?

Slightly unsettled, Snape brushed the experience away, purposely choosing not to speculate on the chances of Prelati’s barely-breathed ‘wow’ (if indeed it had been uttered at all) being directed at one of the younger students in line — though he kept the possibility in the forefront of his mind as something to beware in the future.

As it always did at the start of each Beginning of Term feast, the Sorting Hat, its mouth a tattered rip near the brim, began to sing:

 

_Perk up your ears and heed my call_

_To the occupants of this Great Hall_

_I see six years of old; to the one year of new_

_Put me on your head ~ I’ll tell you about you_

 

Snape immediately tuned it out, catching only an errant phrase before his thoughts returned to his newest pupil.  True, he had been impressed with Serra’s talents upon first meeting her, but over the summer Snape did a bit of research on the girl and discovered her to encompass everything he begrudged: raised as the only child of doting parents, taught one-on-one by one of the most sought-out potions masters in the world, surely living a life of privilege and luxury, shielded from any hint of unpleasantness — everything Snape’s own upbringing lacked.  Even newspaper articles about Tasgall and his apprentice, curiously lacking any photos of the dark-haired girl, referred to her as ‘Tasgall’s Angel’, yet another sign of just how pampered she was — Erus Tasgall’s special pet.

Well, Snape had no intention of continuing such favored treatment.  In fact, he fully intended to bring Serra down a notch or two during her stay here at Hogwarts.

The Sorting Hat was just finishing its song to a chorus of applause.  McGonagall unrolled her parchment and began reading off names, each youngster coming forward in turn to sit on the stool and try on the hat, which then shouted out one of the four Hogwarts houses for that student to join.  Snape clapped dutifully for each new addition to Slytherin, all the while still smoldering over Serra.  She stood at the end of the line by McGonagall, her long hair shimmering in the light of the floating candles.  Though Serra wore the same black robes as all the other students, Snape suddenly remembered that night at the inn, that low-cut gown …

Tipping his head away from Serra’s direction, Snape reined in his decidedly indecent thoughts before mentally cursing the girl again; the wicked little vixen who probably toyed with her suitors, stringing them along as they fell all over themselves to please her only to be dumped like so much trash once the thrill of conquest dwindled.  For such women Snape held a special hatred and part of him felt certain that this one deserved every bit he had to offer.

The last of the first years stumbled down from the stage (Verity, Lucie) to take a seat at the Ravenclaw table, leaving only Serra standing with Professor McGonagall.

“And now,” McGonagall began grandly, waiting for complete silence before continuing; “this year at Hogwarts we are very pleased to welcome to our student body a young woman who up till now has been privately tutored by Erus William Tasgall, the greatest apothecary of this age: Miss Serraphina Lillas.”

It was all Snape could do to keep from rolling his eyes.  Ridiculous introduction.  Another hike to the pedestal Miss Serraphina Lillas had spent her whole life on, looking down upon the unworthy masses beneath her.

“Miss Lillas joins us as a seventh year,” continued McGonagall, “but she shall be sorted along with the rest.  Miss Lillas?”

Casting a quick glance over her shoulder at Snape — again with that insufferable smile, he noted irritably — Serra took her place on the stool.  Knowing that Serra had already been sorted two months before in the headmaster’s office, Snape expected the hat to make quick work of her.  But several moments passed, as though some debate were going on, some change in the girl making the hat reconsider its previous placement.  Snape all the sudden understood there to be a very real possibility that she might end up in _his_ house.  Was that the hold up?  Was the conniving brat begging the Sorting Hat to place her in Slytherin so that more opportunities for her to taunt him could afford themselves?  Snape knew the hat took into account the desires of the wearer, and if that were the case —

“Gryffindor!”

The Gryffindor table erupted into cheers.  Potter’s group made a space for Serra to join them, patting her on the back in welcome.  Of course what better friend for her than the arrogant Harry Potter?  Snape noticed Draco watching disgruntled from the Slytherin table, obviously unhappy at the outcome; Snape, on the other hand, clapped along with the rest, feeling as if he’d just barely escaped an awful sentencing.  When Serra looked at Snape again, he flashed his most contemptuous smirk and raised his hands so she wouldn’t miss his applause.  Her reaction fell short of what he expected, however, for Serra only turned away distractedly.  The smile was gone, having left in its place an air of profound disturbance; and Snape could not help wondering what the Sorting Hat had said to affect her so.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, only the characters you don't recognize from the book series are mine; all the rest belong to JKR.
> 
> This chapter is quite tame. Hell starts next week, and then the fun begins. :p

A perfect, cloudless sky greeted Harry and Ron when they arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast the next morning.  Hermione already sat at their table beside Ginny and the new girl Serra, saving seats.  Ginny and Hermione chatted animatedly as they ate, but Serra picked at her porridge in silence; her level of comfort appeared to hinge inversely upon the number of people around her, right now numbering somewhere in the hundreds.

Up at the High Table staff members conversed and occasionally glanced out over the students.  For a moment Harry stared at the one professor he truly hated, brooding over the fact that this year he and Snape would be butting heads through two Potions’ courses instead of the usual one.  After signing up for the five N.E.W.T. courses needed for acceptance into Auror training, Professor McGonagall had pointed out that Harry’s schedule still included space for Poisons.  Since the study of poisons and antidotes was specifically recommended in preparation for training, Harry had steeled his resolve, choked back his deep loathing for the Hogwarts potions master, and signed up for the class.  Now, struggling with gnawing regrets over the decision, Harry reminded himself that the extra studies would greatly benefit his future.  Achieving his dream of becoming a Dark Wizard catcher would be worth the harassment waiting to be endured in Snape’s dungeon classroom … right?

“Bloody hell — quit staring at that Prelati bloke,” Ron snapped with such hostility that Harry looked at his friend to see what was the matter.  A mutinous scowl darkened Ron’s face.  “He’s got enough of a fan club already,” he grumbled irritably.  “Did you hear the fuss all the girls made over him last night?  Bunch of nutters, the lot of them.  He’s not even _that_ good-looking.”

Harry did indeed remember the commotion caused by the introduction of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.  He received more screaming cheers than even their second year teacher Professor Lockhart; once famous for his numerous wizarding escapades and modelesque looks, every girl in the school was smitten over him — even Hermione.  Even though Harry considered Hermione rather unlikely to be so easily taken in again by a handsome face, probably just the thought of it had Ron on edge.  Therefore, Harry forgave his friend’s harsh, ignorant demand.

“I wasn’t looking at Prelati,” Harry said, taking a seat beside Ginny.  He immediately began piling a plate with bacon, eggs, sausages and toast.  “I was looking at Snape.  I’ve got two classes with him this year, you know.”

“It’ll be good for your career,” Hermione stressed, ever the rational one.  “Poisons are an important part of Auror training.”

Ron, however, snorted.  “Bugger that.  I’d rather eat four dozen Puking Pastilles than spend more time with Snape.”

“Better extra classes with Snape than vomiting up your intestines because you couldn’t tell the difference between pumpkin juice and Viscera Congé Cognac,” Hermione declared haughtily, causing Ron, in the process of taking a swig, to pale and replace his goblet on the table.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Harry muttered once the laughter faded; “You’ve only got one class with him.”

“Of course I do.”  Hermione pushed her plate aside.  “There was simply no way to fit in another course and still take Ancient Runes and Arithmancy.”

Just then the morning mail arrived, heralded by more than a hundred owls swarming into the Great Hall.  Harry grinned upon noticing Serra look up from her porridge in awe at the mass of birds.  He remembered how the sight had startled him on his first morning at Hogwarts seven years ago.

“You’ll get used to it,” he assured her over the noise of the owls fluttering about in search of their owners.  Hedwig flew down to the Gryffindor table, and behind her Harry recognized Serra’s owl, Vlad.  Serra noticed him too (the speckled feathers between his eyes which gave him a look of constant disapproval also made him hard to miss), and her eyes narrowed suspiciously.  Vlad carried something in his beak that almost resembled —

“Oh, you wretched bird!” Serra exclaimed angrily when Vlad landed beside her plate and deposited his little parcel on the half-eaten piece of toast in her hand: a headless mouse, freshly decapitated judging by the way blood dribbled out.  Lavender and Parvati squealed, and all around horrified students stared wide-eyed.  A first year girl hopped up and ran from the Great Hall holding one hand over her mouth.  Even Harry’s stomach roiled uneasily, but Serra only continued holding the rodent-topped bread, glaring at Vlad disgustedly.

“Heavens!  Get that thing out of here,” McGonagall ordered, catching sight of the tiny corpse as she passed out the Gryffindor schedules.  Vlad scowled at her and then turned back to his owner, inspecting her thoroughly as if ensuring her to be properly offended before giving a satisfied hoot.  Then he snatched up the open-faced mouse sandwich in his beak and took off again.

“And I thought Pig was bad,” said Ron, shattering the tension brought on by Vlad’s morbid offering.  Even Serra joined in the laughter.

“He’s just trying to show off his hunting skills for you, you know,” Hermione pointed out as Serra daintily mopped up a puddle of mouse blood from her porridge bowl with a napkin.  “You should praise him.”

Serra cast Hermione a skeptical brow raise.  “You want me to praise him for _that_?  I rather doubt any affection at all was intended in that gesture.”

“Maybe you just don’t have a good feel for his character yet,” Hermione pressed, but Harry tended toward Serra’s side on this argument; Hedwig frequently gifted Harry with dead things, but never anything nearly as gross as Serra’s bloody, beheaded mouse.  That owl was just plain mean.

Later, after comparing schedules, Ginny gave Harry a quick peck on the cheek before heading off to her first period Charms class, and Harry, Ron and Hermione tramped down to the dungeons for the first Potions lesson of the year.  Just behind them Serra strolled in the same direction, intently examining her own schedule.  Noticing the new girl following in their tracks Ron held back, falling in step with her while peering at the small sheet of parchment she held open.

“Hey, you’ve got Potions with us.  Blimey — how many Potions classes are you taking?” he asked, so clearly shocked that both Harry and Hermione glanced back.  “You’ve got Snape every single day of the week!”

“I’m studying to be an apothecary,” Serra responded with a shrug.  She clearly did not see why Ron made such a bother.

“But — but —” Ron spluttered, “it’s _Snape_!”

“So?”  Serra was beginning to look as irritated as her owl.

“So he’s a git!  Tell her, Harry!”

“I happen to think he’s brilliant,” Serra retorted coldly; “and I’m pleased to be studying under him.”

Harry said nothing as Serra strode past them all to the door of the Potions dungeon.  He had a feeling she would find out for herself soon enough.

Very few students occupied the dungeon for Advanced Potions, among them Draco Malfoy, Harry was rather displeased to discover.  Malfoy congregated with the three other Slytherins: Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, and the Nott fellow, whose name Harry couldn’t remember.  The Ravenclaw students also gathered to their own table, and Harry, Ron and Hermione took the back table closest to the door.  Serra, on Hermione’s prompting, sat with them also, leaving the lone Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, at the front table by himself, directly in front of Snape’s desk.

Perched on the stool across from Harry, Serra looked around the shadowy classroom and Harry looked at her.  ‘Gorgeous’ had not been the first description to come to mind when Harry encountered her on the train the day before, but the new girl was rather pretty; more than that, he found the sight of her to be pleasing somehow, like gazing into the hypnotic swirls of the Pensieve waiting for a beautiful memory to take shape that would steal you away to some enchanted past, perhaps an evening of whispered endearments and gentle caresses …

What an inappropriate line of thinking for someone in a committed relationship, Harry realized suddenly, averting his eyes from the new student while guilt colored his cheeks.

At the table in front of theirs Malfoy turned in his chair and leaned over to Serra, much to her (and Pansy’s, Harry noticed) displeasure.

“Hey, Lillas,” he whispered, grinning wickedly and ignoring the glares of the three other Gryffindors.  “Wanna come to our table?  There’re no more chairs, but you can sit on my lap.”

“Shove it, Draco,” Serra murmured back, and Malfoy chuckled.

“Shove it where?” he replied with a wink.

Harry drew his wand, ready to intervene, when Snape swept into the room.

“Wands away, Potter,” Snape ordered.  “There will be no fighting of any kind in my classroom.”  Malfoy smirked at Harry and Harry dearly wished Serra would punch him again.

“Do you know him?” Ron whispered to Serra, glancing quickly at Malfoy.  Harry wondered the same thing; Malfoy certainly seemed familiar with her — or wanted to be, anyway.

“Only enough to hate him,” Serra whispered back.

“Miss Lillas,” Snape broke in, his voice low but sharp.  “It appears you are already having trouble adjusting to your new environment; talking during class is not allowed.  Ten points from Gryffindor.”  Serra frowned at the professor and Ron muttered a quiet ‘sorry’ to her, which got another five points docked.

“Perhaps you need more oversight to keep you in line,” Snape continued, his thin lips curling unpleasantly.  Trade places with Macmillan,” he ordered after eyeing the Gryffindor foursome.  Serra glanced about the room, her expression blank since she had no idea who ‘Macmillan’ was until Ernie stood to give up his spot.

“Much as I am certain you want to sit with the famous Harry Potter,” Snape went on, “your master did not send you to this school so you could shirk your studies by gossiping with the local celebrity.”

While Harry seethed over Snape’s disdainful description of him, Serra obediently moved to the front.  Just as she placed her books down, the greasy haired professor jerked the desk forward and the stack missed the table and thumped to the floor.

“A bit clumsy for such a _talented_ individual, aren’t we now,” Snape said with a smirk, still pulling the desk closer to his own but now much slower.

“Yes, that was quite clumsy of you.” Serra replied smoothly, gaining even more favor in Harry’s mind.  Ron’s eyes widened and Harry knew that he, too, was impressed by this new girl’s boldness.  Harry would have given almost anything to see Serra’s face at that moment as she and Snape locked eyes for a long moment before the lesson began.  At last, here was a student Snape seemed to hate just as much as he did Harry.

 

“If she keeps that up we won’t have any house points at all,” Hermione protested later as the trio made their way to the first floor for Defense Against the Dark Arts.  They joined the queue outside the door.

“Come on, Hermione, cut her some slack,” Ron objected.  “Most of the points Serra lost were for completely bogus reasons.  Snape really has it in for her, doesn’t he?”  This question Ron directed at Harry, adding cheerfully, “Maybe he’ll let up on you now.”

Defense Against the Dark Arts with Professor Prelati turned out to be nothing like Harry had expected.  All the desks lined the walls, facing inward on a large area in the center of the room.  On the floor of this middle space were scrawled several elaborate circles — circles entwined with other shapes and strange characters Harry didn’t recognize, though Hermione took such a sharp breath through her teeth upon seeing them that it resembled a hiss.

“What?” he asked softly, unsure of why he whispered.

“Maybe I’m mistaken,” Hermione said doubtfully, shaking her head.  She selected a seat near the door, stepping carefully around the marks on the floor, which Harry now saw were not isolated to the room’s center.

“Of course you’re not mistaken.”  Ron rolled his eyes and dropped into the desk beside Hermione, motioning Harry to sit next to him.  “Cough it up — what’re all the scribbles about?”

Hermione glance about nervously as if concerned someone might overhear them.  Then she said in a voice so low Harry only just barely heard, “I think they are used to summon demons.”

Goosebumps prickled on Harry’s arms and his throat suddenly felt dry and tight.  Ron shuddered.

“Are you sure?”

“Well, that one definitely is,” Hermione replied, pointing a one of the larger circles in the clearing among the desks.  At the moment Malfoy was standing in the center of that particular pattern, his eyes glowing with excitement like he’d just found a huge amount of treasure.  It did not surprise Harry one bit that Malfoy evidently knew these symbols.  The other students milled around eyeing the marks curiously, but no one else showed any sign of understanding their purpose.

On the shelves lining the back of the room rows of bottles gleamed, reminding Harry of the specimen jars in Snape’s classroom and office; these held not bits of animals but what looked like powder in various shades.  Innocuous enough, Harry thought, but when Padma Patil from Ravenclaw reached for one, a voice called out in warning.

“Do not touch those, please.”

Padma blushed brightly at the reprimand, not because of its harshness but because of the one who gave it.  Professor Prelati stepped into the center of the circle of desks and Harry instantly sensed a definite air of competence about the new teacher.

“The first rule of Demonology,” Prelati said unhurriedly, sweeping the door closed with his wand, “is ‘Do not summon what you cannot control’.  Everyone take a seat.”

Hermione immediately raised her hand and Prelati silently acknowledged her by meeting her eyes and nodding.

“Isn’t the presumption that one can truly control a demon merely a delusion?” Hermione challenged, gaining her quite a few dirty looks from the other girls in the room.  Prelati, on the other hand, only laughed.

“ _Touché_.” The professor beamed at Hermione, gaining her even more dirty looks from the other girls.  “You are correct, of course.  Ten points to —”  Prelati arched a brow, examining the insignia on Hermione’s robe.

“Gryffindor,” Hermione replied giddily, her cheeks pinked, and Harry realized Ron might indeed have good reason to be jealous of the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor.  Ron must have come to the same realization, for he glowered fiercely, arms crossed over his chest.

“Demons are ‘controlled’ in the same way we might ‘control’ a dragon,” Prelati went on, now turning every so often to address the full circle of students.  “Dragons can be captured, caged, and even placated.  A dragon can never be tamed, as you all know, but an experienced handler manages the beasts in such a way as to make them appear tame.  Therein lies the key: one must _never_ forget the true nature of the creature; must never equate the absence of attack to the presence of magnanimity.

“Now,” Prelati continued, every student in the room listening intently, even Ron; “with dragons this is not too difficult to do, no?  Monstrous in size, spikes, fangs, that nasty habit of shooting fire — not much there to encourage fuzzy feelings.”  Prelati flashed a radiant smile at his students, and in it Harry saw not one ounce of fakery.

“Demons, however …”  The professor’s eyes widened subtly, his voice taking on an almost reverent tone, and his listeners leaned forward collectively.  “Demons are cunning shape-shifters, more powerful than even the strongest wizard although they almost always deceitfully downplay their abilities.  They are masters of human sentiment, capable of putting on a _brilliant_ show.  When dealing with a demon it becomes all too easy to think of him as a part human creature, like a vampire or werewolf — neither one irredeemable from their animal natures.  One might come to truly befriend a vampire, to safely trust a werewolf.  But know this —” here Prelati raised a finger, eyeing his class gravely; “to place one’s trust in a demon is to open the door to your own destruction.  There is no trace of humanity under their wicked exterior, for the demon is evil through and through.”

Silence dominated the room when Professor Prelati finished his lecture.  The subject of his speech alone would have commanded attention, but Prelati exuded charisma that automatically drew others in.  Still, when he took a bottle matching those on the forbidden shelves from his robes and unstoppered it, suggesting a demonstration, a dozen assorted objections flew at him from all directions.

“Now, now,” he chuckled, one hand raised defensively, “I would never expose any of you to a dangerous situation.  I have a certain compulsion over this particular demon which makes him … more willing to do what I ask.”

“What do you have on him?” Malfoy asked, his pale face aglow.

“To give the information would annul what little authority I do have over him,” Prelati replied calmly, walking around the drawing Hermione had indicated earlier.  The powder from the bottle poured like a liquid and flood-filled the lines of the circle.

“What is that stuff?” Padma asked curiously.

“A combination of various elements that are needed to summon and contain this specific entity.”

The bottle empty of its contents now, Prelati tucked it away in his robe and slipped a ring on each of his middle fingers, rings that slid down no further than the first knuckle.

“From this point on, no one must say a word,” Prelati stressed.  “Do not speak to him even if he speaks to you.”

Tension filled the classroom and stretched everyone’s nerves tightly.  All eyes were fixed on Professor Prelati except Ron’s, Harry noticed.  Ron’s attention was focused on Hermione, who sat pressed as far back in her seat as possible and right on the edge, as if preparing to make a break for it.  All the while she watched Professor Prelati intently along with the rest, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, as he balled his fists and then knelt, palms flat against the floor directly over the edge of the circle.  Ron glanced at Harry; Harry shrugged and looked back to Prelati.

The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was murmuring an incantation of some sort, still on his knees.  Then he stood, hands held together as if in prayer, and uttered a series of sounds.  Harry guessed it to be a language of some sort, though nothing like Harry had ever heard before — so unlike human speech it sent chills down his spine.  Many other students shuddered also, and when the chanting amplified exponentially, echoing like the room had suddenly expanded into a vast cavern, Hermione covered her ears.

All at once smoke billowed up, whiting out the space within the confines of the circular drawing from floor to the ceiling.  At the same time the atmosphere grew icy and an unseen and unbearable pressure exerted itself from that murky column.  Just as suddenly, it was gone; the haze dissipated and in its place stood a very handsome, middle aged man in a suit.

Harry’s first impression was that this must be some sort of trick, for this character looked completely normal — no glowing red eyes, forked tail or horns.  It ignored the group of teens, staring only at Professor Prelati.

“ _Ita?_ ” Prelati addressed the man, and Harry assumed this to be the being’s name.  It answered Prelati in a different tongue, but not one so chilling as the language Prelati used to summon the thing.  Harry didn’t know this language either, but the professor obviously did, for he responded in kind: “ _Est is hic iam?_ ”

  Now the demon-man rotated slowly to take in his audience, gazing at each person for several seconds in turn.   When he reached Harry, he grinned slightly as if in recognition, and Harry’s insides shriveled.

Finally the creature turned back to Prelati.  “ _Non huic cella_.”

Behind him Harry heard a soft scratching sound, and glancing back he saw Hermione hastily scribbling on a sheet of parchment — the only student in the room taking notes on the curious spectacle.

Prelati spoke once more in that indecipherable tongue.  When the being answered (to Harry it sounded like ‘seek’) and Prelati nodded thoughtfully, parting his hands, clearly about to dismiss the demon guest, Malfoy cried out angrily, “But he’s just a man!”

Harry wasn’t the only one shocked by the sudden outburst; many gasped and Prelati shot a quick glare at Malfoy.  Harry just caught a glimpse of a truly heinous smile on the suited-man’s lips before he swiveled to face the speaker.  Inside the barrier the creature shimmered, as if being watched through waves of heat.  The human façade flickered and for a short moment a horrendous beast could be seen, towering over the class.

It was massive: muscles rippling beneath grayish scaly flesh, fingers and toes ending in enormous claws, ears like a bat — or had those been the horns Harry had originally expected to see?  Great shadows hovered about its shoulders — what Harry later realized were wings — and at the base of the spine sprouted a tail tipped with a wicked barb.

Screams erupted from the terrified onlookers and the demon laughed.  Low, resonating bellows echoed off the walls, filling the air with hellish vibrations.

“That is enough,” Professor Prelati snapped, his voice barely able to be heard above the cacophony although he still appeared quite calm.  He pressed his palms firmly together, began uttering once more in that unholy tongue — now quite befitting of the horror among them.  As smoke curled up from the floor the demon whipped around, giving Harry and his friends a mercifully brief exposure to its ghastly face — needle-like teeth, gleaming tusks and eyes that glittered with diabolical hatred unmatched by anything Harry could ever have imagined.

Iciness flooded the room along with the odd crushing sensation.  The cloudy column obscured the frightful being, and when it vanished the demon was gone as well.

Only when the sunlight streamed through the windows again did Harry realize just how dark it had been only seconds before, as if that horrible monster drove away the very light itself.  Now, however, the atmosphere was clean and pure.  Harry found it easier to breathe, and all around him others were gulping huge mouthfuls of air.  Only Prelati seemed unscathed.

“Fifty points from Slytherin,” he said, siphoning the powder from the floor-drawing back into its container.  “To the others, I deeply apologize for that display.  The true form of a demon is terrifying indeed.  Any nightmares you suffer from this experience you may blame on Mister Malfoy.”  When Malfoy frowned at the professor, Prelati added coldly, “It should have been a hundred.

“Now then,” Prelati said cheerfully, clapping his hands together; “shall we get on with today’s real lesson?”

After the horrific demon summoning, the ‘real’ lesson garnered very little attention; most student were simply too shaken to concentrate, including Harry, and he was sincerely grateful that Professor Prelati opted not to give any homework.

“I wonder what he was saying to that thing,” Ron speculated on their way down to the Great Hall.  “Do you know what language that was?”

Harry shrugged.

“It was Latin,” Hermione muttered distractedly, looking over her notes from class.  “And we’ll know what he said as soon as I translate it.”

“You speak Latin?” Ron blurted incredulously.

“No, I don’t speak Latin,” she snapped; “nobody speaks Latin anymore — it’s a dead language.”

It was then that Harry realized just how upset Hermione still was.  Ron’s eyebrows scrunched together angrily and he opened his mouth to deliver a biting retort, but Harry interrupted before a full-on fight broke out between his two best friends.

“Hermione, what’s the matter?  Are you worried about that demon?  Because Prelati said it couldn’t rematerialize here without the powder and that circle thingy.”

“Yes, yes, I know — the spells around Hogwarts keep demons out.  But the circle wasn’t the only thing allowing it to fully manifest.  Didn’t you see his hands?” Hermione demanded, clearly frustrated by the blank stares she received in response.

“Prelati’s hands?” Harry ventured hesitantly.

“Of course Prelati’s hands!”

“Uh … what about them?” Ron asked.  Clearly, he, like Harry, hadn’t noticed the professor’s hands at all through that awful display.

“They were bleeding.”  Hermione looked back and forth between Harry and Ron waiting for the significance of her statement to set in.  When it didn’t, she went on: “Those rings he put on were little knives; he cut his hands before he laid them on the circle.  He used his _blood_ to summon the demon!” she clarified, her expression darkening as her friends finally began to understand.  “I think he’s bound himself to that thing.”

 

 

 

The first day of term finally came to a close.  Serra lay in her bunk in the Gryffindor girls’ dormitory, already having decided that she hated it here and then suffering a change of mind both in the last twelve hours.

The whole school routine differed greatly from Serra’s life back home, and while logically she understood and even expected this, the reality still managed to overwhelm her.  Perhaps the most agitating change thus far (besides, of course, the total lack of potions training) was that here within the walls of this enormous castle she was never alone, unless she ducked into the loo or the bathrooms.  As a solitary, unsociable individual who kept a grand total of two close friends, neither of them her own age — or even her own species, some would argue — being suddenly thrown into an environment with hundreds of other children and teens where fraternization was expected and even encouraged might be compared to swiping a lizard out from under a rock and tossing it into a busy roadway on scalding blacktop with monstrous vehicles coming at it from all directions: unsettling at the very least.

But Professor Snape — Serra’s new ‘master’ — _that_ man singlehandedly instilled in Serra the immense distaste she held for Hogwarts.

In Advanced Potions that morning not only had she cost her house a grand total of thirty points, most of them due to blatant unfairness on Professor Snape’s part, but she hadn’t learned anything new whatsoever except that the Ravenclaw boy who sat behind her tended to breathe through his mouth quite noisily.  She had been under the impression that Snape would be altering her assignments to a level more on par with her skills, but this morning she’d been required to brew a basic desensitizing solution, which she’d perfected three years ago; and worse, Snape expected her to work directly from the textbook, not altering the recipes in any way to procure a better product.

The third period Poisons lesson consisted of concocting a potion from a selection of bacteria vials, brewing it in such a way as to increase the toxicity of the chosen specimen.  Of the scant number of students in the class (only three: Harry, Draco, and Serra herself) Serra had been the only one with an end result that was actually poisonous — and then Snape had docked another ten points from Gryffindor when Serra’s potion proved potent enough not only to kill the mandrake tester, but to eat completely through the pot as well, leaving a small crater in Snape’s desk.

But the project had been laughably simple for her, and that, in Serra’s book, made the situation much more intolerable than Snape’s outright viciousness.  Let him delve into his vast stores of cruelty; none of it would faze her, not after growing up dealing with Erus Tasgall’s temperament.  But if Professor Snape continued to deny her the teachings she had come for, he would find in Serra a match to his own savagery.

 

By the time Transfiguration rolled around, things finally began looking up: Harry shared with Ron and Hermione Snape’s spiteful subtracting of house points for Serra’s too-powerful poison, and it was nice to hear their aggrieved comments in her defense.  And when Draco, with whom she’d shared every class this day, tried to sit directly behind Serra, the teen with the deep tan and blue-green eyes her mother had pointed out at King’s Cross took that desk and Draco settled instead for the seat beside Serra — not an ideal arrangement, but a good deal better than having to put up with a year full of whispered come-ons in her ear.

Professor McGonagall, after running through a quick roll call during which Serra learned that the bloke behind her was a Ravenclaw named Anthony Goldstein, had requested that Serra come to the front of the class and switch to her Animagus form.  While it embarrassed Serra greatly to be gawked at like a zoo exhibit, McGonagall awarded thirty points to Gryffindor for Serra’s presentation.

The lesson also allowed Serra more opportunities to earn back the house points Snape had robbed from Gryffindor: conjuring vertebrates from crates in back of the classroom.  Transfiguration did not come easily to Serra, but vertebrate conjuring had already been covered in her lessons back home; so she, along with Hermione, was able to advance from mice to sparrows and even up to rabbits by the end of the period.

At dinner, conversations all around centered on various experiences in Defense Against the Dark Arts.  Serra listened to Ron and Harry tell the others at their table about how Professor Prelati had summoned a demon and how Draco Malfoy had made it angry (that part didn’t surprise Serra one bit).  From what the younger years added, it seemed the professor had repeated the same performance with every class of his that day, though only the seventh year group got a glimpse of the demon’s true nature.  The other years bemoaned the fact that all they witnessed was a short, unintelligible conversation between the professor and his summoned creature, while the seventh years stressed again and again how desperately they wished they _hadn’t_ seen any more than that.

Serra left the table glad she wouldn’t be taking Defense Against the Dark Arts at all.  Professor Snape was a loathsome enough creature to be dealing with.

Now, with her homework done and the worst experiences of the morning muted by a nicer afternoon, Serra decided that maybe she’d been a bit too hasty with her judgment on the school, and Professor Snape in particular.  Perhaps he hadn’t had time to arrange for extra lessons yet.  It might take him as long as a week to adjust to this new responsibility.  Yes, Serra concluded charitably, she would give him a week.

Then she would give him hell.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Harry Potter characters and places belong to JKR.
> 
> No warnings for this chapter, but we are coming to the end of the niceties. ;)

By Wednesday it became clear that giving Professor Snape a full week to change his ways was far too magnanimous.  Not only did he not want to advance Serra’s learning, he blatantly touted his own skills, brewing elaborate concoctions during classes (under the guise of restocking Madame Pomfrey’s potion stores, though no student could recall Snape ever using class time for such things), all the while leering at Serra over his desk as if to say, “I _could_ be teaching you to do this, but I’m not.”

Finally, confronted with particularly inferior instructions for Blood-Purification Infusion, Serra resolved to use her own method, whatever may come.  She began the amateurish assignment, preparing the solution with the altered formula she knew by memory.

Midway through the period Snape left his cauldron (filled with a vibrant purple liquid that Serra, much to her irritation, couldn’t identify) to simmer, meanwhile patrolling about the room to check on his students’ progress.  He voiced his assessments only in degrading tsks until reaching Serra.

“Miss Lillas,” said Snape approaching Serra’s desk, “How much boar’s tongue did you just add to that cauldron?”

A flush rose to Serra’s cheeks as she met the Snape’s hard gaze.  “Three measures worth,” she answered.

“Three measures worth,” Snape repeated slowly.  “And how much does the textbook say to use?”

“Two and three quarters,” Serra replied without looking at the book for reference, “but —”

“But you arrogantly disregarded the textbook,” Snape interrupted.  “Do you believe yourself to be smarter than the masters who wrote this book?”

“No, but —” Serra began helplessly.

“Do you suppose you can create a better potion doing it your own way?”

“Mine is better,” said Serra hotly, now glaring at the professor.

Snape scoffed and with a wave of his wand her cauldron stood empty.  “You will begin again—”

“That’s not fair!” Serra cried.  “I’ve done it before.  This creates a much better —”

“— and this time you will follow the book exactly,” Snape continued, his voice raised to be heard over Serra’s objections.  “Careless experimentation is dangerous.  Many lives have been claimed by such acts.”

“I wasn’t being careless!”

“Silence!” Snape barked.  “Ten points from Gryffindor and you will also write an essay on the fatal outcomes of tampering with potion formulas.  Eighteen inches, due tomorrow.”  He swept away, his robes fanning behind, leaving Serra to fume over the unfairness of it all.

That evening, eighteen inches of paper before her, Serra quickly scrawled out her rebuttal to Snape’s humiliating treatment of her.  She turned it in at the beginning of Thursday’s Advanced Potions class and got right to work on that day’s project.

Not long into the period the potions master strode up to her desk again, essay in hand.  With no pretense he Vanished the contents of Serra’s cauldron and unrolled the parchment, filled top to bottom with huge, looping letters.  He cast a scowl in Serra’s direction and began reading aloud: “In all my years of experimentation I have never had a disastrous outcome.  If I ever do cause fatal damage to myself, I shall surely write about it then.”

A few snickers were heard throughout the class but a sweeping glare from the hooked-nose professor quickly stifled them.

“You will rewrite this essay — twenty-four inches,” said Snape softly.

“Guess I’ll just have to write bigger,” Serra replied with a dismissive shrug.

Snape’s eyes flashed.  “If you do,” he said in a dangerously low voice, “you just might find yourself the _victim_ of a deadly potion experiment.”

Although the classroom now hung with an oppressive silence as if the other students truly thought Professor Snape might actually do such a thing, Serra was quite unimpressed.

“Oh yes,” she said staring up at him skeptically, “that would look _really_ good on any future job résumés: ‘Tampered with student’s potion as an example to discourage against tampering with potions, resulting in the death of said student.’”

Slightly raising one brow Snape added coldly, “‘Said student has learned her lesson and will _never again_ experiment with potions.’”

How Snape expected Serra to react, she didn’t know; but the grin that spread across her face — a genuine, mirthful smile — clearly was not it, though he had seen her respond the same way before to a snide comment made by Erus Tasgall.  His eyes narrowed in suspicion but Serra only laughed.

“Alright, I’ll do your stupid essay — sir,” she said lightly, taking up her scales.  “Twenty-four inches, single spaced, small font.”  She began measuring out ingredients to restart her Vanished potion, considering the matter closed.

Strangely unnerved by her reaction, Snape gave her a baleful expression.  Then, unwilling to let her off so easily, he said, “Ten points from Gryffindor for cheek,” and passed on to criticize other students.

Luckily, in the two Herbology classes the day before Serra had earned more than enough to make up for the points Professor Snape had docked (although the penalties were not as unfounded as they first had been).  It felt good to be fighting back against Snape’s treatment of her, and as a result Serra found it easier to concentrate on her other courses which, in turn, made it easier for her to gain points for her house.  House points meant very little to Serra, but she realized them to be important to others, and though she did not go out of her way to impress her classmates, neither did she wish to give them reason to hate her.

Some people, however, hated her from the start.

The central members of this discriminating group were the seventh year Slytherin girls.  Having been warned that a long-standing animosity divided the Gryffindors from the Slytherins, Serra tried to steer clear, her attempts frequently thwarted by Draco, who took every opportunity to seek her out and murmur unsolicited (and often very crude) comments regarding her — or his — anatomy and what he would like to do with it.  Apparently Pansy Parkinson considered herself to be Draco’s girlfriend, and since Pansy seemed to be the leader of this Slytherin girl-gang, Serra rightly surmised Draco’s unwanted attention toward Serra to be the main cause behind their collective hostility.

Never one to tattletale (or to admit when she needed help), Serra dealt with their attacks on her own, usually by running in the opposite direction.  Serra knew that if it came down to a confrontation of wands she would almost certainly lose; though excellent when it came to whipping up serums, draughts, elixirs and other such brews, the reflexes needed for defensive spells simply weren’t there.  Offensive spells were out of the question — backed into a corner, Serra was more likely to throw a punch than even remember she owned a wand to draw. Still, despite the daily harassment doled out by Pansy and her little pack of banshees, pride kept her from turning them in to her Head of House.  

 

Evenings at Hogwarts were spent either in the Gryffindor common room or the library — roaming the halls wasn’t allowed.  As the Transfiguration assignment from that morning proved to be quite complicated, Serra purposed to finally see what the library had to offer in the way of help.  She found many students doing just the same thing, slowly scanning the texts on any of a thousand shelves or sitting around tables hunched over open tombs.  The librarian, Madame Pince, stalked about staring suspiciously at anyone who dared touch the books.

While doing a quick look-around for any of the Slytherin girls (or worse, Draco) Serra spotted Hermione at one of the tables.  Several texts lay open before her, and she appeared rather flustered, scribbling on a parchment one moment only to consult one of the books and then cross it out again.

Serra’s first impulse was to ignore the girl and get on with her own work; after all, she hadn’t come to Hogwarts to socialize and she was perfectly comfortable on her own.  Besides which, she had never purposely approached any of Harry’s group of friends yet — thus far they’d either invited her to join them or they simply ended up together — and it might be awkward if Serra suddenly moved in now. On the other hand, it might be good to branch out a bit, and she could hear her mother’s voice in her head encouraging her to go over there already.  That decided it.

“Hi, Hermione,” Serra greeted, softly so as not to attract the attention of Madame Pince.  She forced a smile and pretended her heart wasn’t pounding like a tap-dancing mountain troll, that she wasn’t choking at the thought of initializing contact with someone her own age.

“Oh, hi, Serra.”  Hermione barely glanced up, but since neither did she wince and shrink away at Serra’s presence like she actually _was_ a mountain troll, Serra stayed put.  She stole a peek at the nearest book in Hermione’s collection.

“You’re doing Latin?”  Forgetting her shyness along with her own homework, Serra pulled up a chair beside the bushy-haired Gryffindor girl.  “Can I help?”

Finally Hermione looked at Serra, her expression a mix of frustration and curiosity.  “You know Latin?”

“Well, not fluently, but my master made me study it for two years.”  Serra shrugged.  “A lot of spells are rooted in Latin.  What is it you’re trying to do?”

“Translation,” Hermione said, passing the much-scribbled-on parchment over.  “Latin to English, but I only heard the words, so I’m not certain they are even spelled right, and Latin is such a beast to translate anyway without context because practically every word has a dozen different meanings!”

“Well, this first one is easy,” Serra said straight away.  “‘ _Ita?_ ’— Master used that one on me all the time.  It means ‘Well?’ or ‘So?’  And this one —” she pointed to a word on the second line of Hermione’s makeshift script “— almost always means ‘her’.”

The two girls dropped into deep discussion over the paper between them, now both pouring over the selection of books spread on the table.  Hermione filled Serra in on the conversation Professor Prelati had held with his demon, giving Serra a heightened interest in these cryptic sentences, as well as a touch of giddy fright.

“And what’s more,” Hermione whispered dramatically, “I’ve spoken to a lot of students about their experiences with Professor Prelati and in every class — their first lesson with him — he’s summoned the demon and asked almost these same things.  The only difference is that after our class he left out the last question, presumably because he already knew the answer to that one.”

“He’s looking for someone.”  Serra murmured, gazing over the much-corrected notes.

“Yes,” Hermione agreed gravely; “and he’s using that demon to help find her.”

 

Friday dawned cool and bright.  The morning Herbology II class went exceptionally well, Serra and Neville (who possessed an impressive affinity for the subject) working together to successfully harvest a Latvian Blazing Orache without suffering a single burn.  Serra used her break to catch up on her homework (the Transfiguration she’d slacked on the night before), and in third period Herbology Serra even felt a little bit of camaraderie between Hermione and herself as the two of them conveyed to Ron and Harry the translations they had worked out.

“So the demon said he could sense her presence but that she wasn’t in the room,” Harry repeated for clarification; “and then Prelati asked…”

“‘But she’s in this place?’”

“And the demon said ‘yes’,” Serra tacked on, carefully snipping a string-like leaf off the massive Hairy Vriesea at their table so it looked like they were actually working.

“We’re pretty sure he means Hogwarts,” continued Hermione, who really did seem to be working as she spoke.  “Whoever she is, she’s at the school.  Should we tell Dumbledore, do you think?”

Harry shook his head.  “Dumbledore already knows; I’d bet my Firebolt on it.  He knows everything that goes on here.”  His pruning shears were suddenly pulled from his grasp and Serra and Ron helped him wrestle them back from the twining branches of the Vriesea, all of them taking several lashings in the process.

“I just wonder what Prelati wants with her, and if he’s found her yet.”  Harry rubbed at one of the many red welts rising on his arms.

“Well, if he hasn’t found her yet it narrows down the pool of possibilities, doesn’t it?” said Hermione thoughtfully.  “First through fifth years have to take Defense Against the Dark Arts, so they all would have been checked through and rejected.  The only students able to opt out of it are sixth and seventh years.  We just need to find out which sixth and seventh year girls aren’t taking Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

As they pondered this new information Ron’s shears disappeared into the Vriesea’s tangly maw and the grappling match began anew.

 

Final period Advanced Potions marked the drop-off to a steep decline down which Serra’s boarding school adventure sped for several days, renewing her hatred for the place.

On Snape’s desk at the front of the dungeon two baskets sat side by side.  Serra, with an idea of what might be coming, dug into her miniaturizing pocket where she had stashed her new potions case.  She found what she needed just as the bell rang, signaling the start of class.

Professor Snape emerged from the hall and strode up to his desk, black robe flaring behind him.  He took stance at the baskets, eyeing Serra in a most unfriendly manner before grabbing one of the baskets and holding it up for the class to inspect.

  “Who can tell me what these are?”  He stalked between desks displaying the contents.  No one ventured to answer.  “Mister Malfoy,” he offered blandly (what passed for outright warmth in Snape’s case), “what do you see here?”

“Uh, brown beans?”  Draco said diffidently.

“Very good.  Ten points to Slytherin.”  To the indignant gasps and grumbles accusing favoritism Snape only smirked.  He returned to the desk and took up the other basket, parading it around the room in the same way.  This basket appeared to be filled with the exact same beans, yet Snape still asked, “And who can tell me what _these_ are?”

Serra immediately raised her hand.  Snape stared at her for a long moment and then with a spiteful smile turned instead to Hermione, who also held up a hand.

“Miss Granger?”

Seething behind the placid expression she wore, Serra fixed her eyes on the board while Hermione gave the correct answer (the deadly Calabar bean which was indistinguishable from a common brown bean — no points to Gryffindor however).  Loathing for the sallow professor roiled inside her, making it difficult for Serra to feign serenity.  Snape would not even let her demonstrate her knowledge, let alone help her increase it.

After scooping out a cup of beans from each basket while turned away from the class, Snape ordered two students to pass out one bean from each cup to each person; the rest of the period would be used to decide which of their given beans the poisonous one was, just as Serra thought it would be.  She sat silently, waiting to begin the test she knew she could pass, when Draco leaned over her shoulder to deliver one of the needed legumes.

“If you don’t want beans I have two balls you can play with,” he whispered, purposely pressing against her back.

Serra leaned forward, away from the hardness he obviously wanted her to feel, and considered elbowing Draco in the aforementioned balls; instead she whispered back, “I’ll take the beans, thanks.  They’re probably bigger.”

Scowling ferociously Draco skulked on and Serra took out her supplies; while directly in front of her Snape also began setting out supplies to yet again rub in Serra’s face her exclusion from the brewing of what looked to be a rather intricate mixture.  This callous act only served to increase Serra’s determination, and she buckled down to work.

Taking the utmost care to ensure no mix-up would occur, Serra first dotted one bean with an ink blot and placed it on one side of the desk inside a heavy circle drawn on a sheet of parchment.  The unmarked bean went on the opposite side on a blank sheet of parchment.  Only then did she begin the analysis, using separate knives to prick each bean, afterward immediately using the sullied knives to stab two small green stems of Galapagos Carpet Weed she’d taken out earlier.  The clean-bean knife showed no effect, but the ink-bean knife caused the Carpet Weed to shrivel into a brown curl that looked rather like a dried worm.  Serra made a mental note to thank her papa for sending her off with so many more regents than the Hogwarts list called for, and then stashed away the Carpet Weed, deciding it would be just like Snape to punish her for having non-required regents.

Though Serra had her answer, she appeared to be the only one.  Various murmurings could be heard, students trying any number of charms to distinguish which bean was which — useless since the Calabar bean didn’t respond to the usual disclosure spells.  At the next table over (back a ways from Serra’s since her desk still remained where Snape had moved it on the first day, less than a meter from his own) Draco awkwardly attempted to dissect his legumes, and beside him Pansy busily diced, shaved, and crushed her poor beans in the aimless manner of one who’s lost interest and now participated just for fun.

Near the end of the period Serra distinctly heard Hermione huff defeatedly, “It’s simply not possible with the tools we’ve been given!”

Snape took that frustrated exclamation as his cue, leaving his potion on the desk while he toured the dungeon inspecting the various methods employed.  He skimmed over Draco and Pansy, barely glancing at their mutilated bean piles, and stopped by Ron, whose progress Serra couldn’t see.

“Which is the toxic bean, Mister Weasley?”

Ron shrugged and replied, “This one?  Maybe?”

“Shall we test your competence then?  Open up.”  Snape’s lips twisted grimly.  “Even if you guess, there’s still only a fifty percent chance you’ll fall into a fit of convulsions before respiratory failure steals your breath away.”

Draco snickered — rather presumptuously, Serra thought, since he hadn’t managed any better — and Ron only shook his head, muttering “no way”.

As had become his usual procedure, Snape stopped at Serra’s desk last, peering down over his nose at the two sheets of parchment.

“And what has Erus Tasgall’s _angel_ come up with?” he asked, making Tasgall’s nickname for Serra sound derogatory.

“This one is the Calabar bean,” Serra stated boldly, pointing to the ink-splotched bean on the marked parchment.

“You’re certain of this, are you?” Snape asked silkily.  “Confident enough to put your answer where your mouth is?”

“Even if I guess I still have a fifty percent chance, right?”  Shooting the spiteful professor a smug grin, Serra grabbed the bean from the opposite parchment and popped it in her mouth.

“Foolish girl!” Snape bellowed, seizing Serra under the chin and pinching her jaw painfully — but not in time to stop her swallow.  Realizing this, Snape grabbed her arm instead and jerked her to her feet, obviously intending to drag her to the hospital wing for immediate intervention.

“Calm down,” Serra said smiling grimly.  “I didn’t guess; I used Galapagos Carpet Weed.”

Releasing her arm suddenly, Snape whirled Serra around to face him, looking absolutely murderous when she pulled from her pocket the two bits of succulent.

“Detention, Miss Lillas,” he hissed furiously.  “And don’t _ever_ pull a stunt like that again.”

 

At supper the seventh year Gryffindor table laughed riotously over the performance.  Ron especially delighted in retelling it over and over, acting out Snape’s shock with ridiculous facial expressions.

“So Serra’s like, ‘hell, yeah, I’m sure!’”  Ron pantomimed hastily shoving something in his mouth as those around him shrieked with glee.  “And then Snape’s like, ‘You foolish girl!’”

The outrageous roar Ron used to describe this outburst caused even Serra to dissolve into fits of giggles, though all the hullabaloo over her actions made her uncomfortable.  She had eaten that bean out of defiance to Professor Snape, not to become a standing joke at the dinner table.

Hermione, at least, wasn’t pleased.  “Ron, that’s no way for Head Boy to act,” she snapped, throwing down her napkin angrily.  “I ought to take a point from everyone who’s laughing.”

This cut the ruckus down instantly and Ron gazed injuriously at his girlfriend.  “But you gotta admit that was brilliant,” Ron declared.  “I mean, when’s the last time anyone ever got Snape like that?”

“No, I do not,” Hermione insisted.  “And it was a reckless thing to do.”

At this Serra flushed hotly, examining the simple golden plate holding her food rather than face those around her.  Just when she’d thought she might have a chance at making a friend …

Hermione continued defiantly.  “All Serra’s acting up costs all of us points —”

“Which she earns back in her other classes,” Ron interjected.

“It’s completely disrespectful of authority!  Not to mention that she very well could have _died_ if she’d accidentally eaten the wrong bean.”

_Wonder how many points Snape would have docked for that?_ Serra thought wryly, her wounded pride solidifying into an even stronger fortress around her heart.  Then Harry spoke up, effectively wedging an access hole for himself in her armor.

“Is it her disrespect you’re upset about, or the fact that she figured out which was the poisonous bean and you didn’t?”

Serra glanced up to see Hermione glowering at Harry.  It had never once dawned on her that Hermione might be jealous.

“You just wait,” Hermione finally said, turning to Serra.  “Snape is the worse teacher to have detention with.  He’ll have you doing something wretched.”

As usual, Hermione was right.

 

The halls were empty and silent when Serra left the Gryffindor common room.  She took her time, enjoying the quiet.  Though no longer bothered by Hermione’s criticism, Serra decided to give up on the whole ‘reaching out’ bit of this school experiment.  She didn’t need friendship here; school was for learning.  If anyone didn’t like the way she handled Snape’s treatment of her, well bugger on them.

So engrossed was she in her thoughts that Serra failed to notice the figure mounting the stairs as she headed down, and skipping over the step she suspected of being false brought her into a full-on collision with Professor Prelati.

Serra gave a short cry of alarm and Prelati, looking up just in time to see the girl careening toward him, only had time to gasp.  The stack of books and papers Prelati carried went flying and both he and Serra tumbled back the way he had just come.  Serra braced herself for impact, but instead something caught her round the waist and she only swung in a tight semicircle, hitting the wall with her shoulder.

Prelati, using quick reflexes that Serra did not possess, had managed to grab the thin railing to stop his fall and impulsively threw his free arm around Serra to catch her as well.

“I am so sorry,” Serra heaved, fighting to reclaim her breath and her balance.

“Never mind.  Are you okay?”  Prelati gazed at her with concern.

“I’m fine — I just wasn’t paying attention.  I’m so sorry,” she repeated.  Now that the threat of plunging down the stairs had passed, Serra became aware that, though they both stood quite stably, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor still held her firmly.  Even through their robes Serra could feel the well-defined muscles in his arm.  Very strong for such a slender bloke.

“Happens to all of us,” Prelati said, smiling easily. He relinquished his hold on Serra and she began helping him collect his scattered papers.  “You’re the new girl, aren’t you?  The one who studied under Erus Tasgall?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“It was … don’t tell me … Lillas.  Miss Serraphina Lillas.”  Prelati smiled again and Serra noticed that he was quite handsome indeed.  From his dazzling sapphire blue eyes to his fine, aristocratic features; dark wavy hair and absolutely flawless skin, Professor Prelati merited all the attention the girls around school had been giving him.

“Right again.”  Serra smiled back at the professor and returned the sheets she gathered.

“I haven’t seen you in any of my classes yet,” Prelati continued, staring steadily into Serra’s eyes.  “When will I have the pleasure?”

“You won’t, I’m afraid,” Serra replied.  “I am not taking Defense Against the Dark Arts this year.”

Professor Prelati looked sincerely disappointed by her answer, but then shrugged and said with a becoming grin, “Well, if you’d like any private lessons, you know where to find me.”

“Yes, sir.”  Serra gave him a quick nod, remembering her detention with Snape.  Who knew what he would do if she were late?  “If you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

“As do I, of course,” Prelati said suavely.  He extended the arm he’d previously held her by, and Serra went on her way.

She mulled over the odd meeting as she trekked down to the entrance hall.  Hard to believe that was the man who consorted with demons.  Professor Prelati seemed nice, if a bit intense as well.

All thoughts of the comely professor and his hellion advisor, however, evaporated from her mind the moment she stepped foot in the Hogwarts dungeons.  An atrocious scent intercepted Serra at that point, reaching its nauseating claws clear down to her stomach and giving it a good, wrenching squeeze.  It only grew worse as she advanced down the hall to the classroom, forcing Serra to choke back dry heaves.  She’d met dead animals that smelled better than this.

In the potions dungeon Serra practically had to wade through the noxious odor, pouring off of several barrels of fish heads — spoiled, putrefying fish heads.  Her dinner valiantly tried to make an encore appearance.

“Good evening, Miss Lillas.”  Snape rose from his desk just long enough to tip her a mocking nod of gentility.  “I do hope the smell isn’t too bad.  Regrettably I seem to have developed a bit of congestion and so cannot enjoy it with you.”  His eyes glittered vindictively.

“Tonight you will be collecting eyeballs from these.”  He motioned to the six barrels of festering chum.  “Hagrid was going to throw them out, but I convinced him we simply could not be so wasteful, especially when we’ve someone as _gifted_ as you to salvage the good parts.  I shall be here to ensure you don’t overlook any.”

Serra began the revolting task using a tool that looked similar to a melon baller (she would never look at cute balls of melon the same after this).  It turned out to be quick work once she got the knack of jamming the sharp, curved spoon into the eye socket and giving it just the right twist.  The smell, however, seemed impossible to get used to and Serra finally resorted to holding her breath.

Soon enough Snape, who occupied the time grading essays, noticed this tactic and took advantage of the situation by throwing out jeering snipes to which Serra could not retort without taking in more polluted air.

“You must have lost close to a hundred points from Gryffindor,” said Snape, leering at Serra from his desk at the front of the room.  “And not even a week into term …”  He clucked his tongue softly.

Serra clenched her jaw in anger, not yet willing to stop holding her breath — and so face the offensive odor of rotted fish — long enough to respond to Snape’s goading comment.

“You’ll find that constantly losing house points won’t earn you many friends,” Snape went on blandly.

“I didn’t come here to make friends,” snapped Serra, viciously ripping an eyeball from its socket with a sickening _schlep_ ; “I came to learn Potions, not that I’ll learn anything from you …”

“Temper, temper …” Snape chided softly, not looking up from his scrolls.  Serra envisioned flinging the stinkiest, slimiest eyeball she could find right at Snape’s wretched forehead, watching fish puss dripping down that hateful, sneering face …

“Bastard,” she muttered.

“Dear, dear … such language,” said Snape, meeting Serra’s malevolent gaze.  “Perhaps another detention will help you control your tongue.  I believe I have a vat of armadillo livers just waiting for someone of your remarkable talent to squeeze the bile from … Tomorrow night will do nicely.”

Now Serra pictured dousing Snape with the whole barrel of fish eyes.  Why in the whole wizarding world, she wondered, had she left Master Tasgall for this sadistic troll of a man?  With no sensible answer in sight, Serra decided it must have been a moment of temporary insanity.

Two hours later the entire lot of rotting fish heads had been separated from their eyeballs and Serra was looking forward to a hot, soapy shower to rinse off the vile fish juice she’d been splattered with.

“Tomorrow evening, seven o’clock,” Snape reminded Serra, glancing up long enough to flash her a snide, twisted smile.

“Yes, sir,” Serra replied stonily, nowhere near ready to leave the professor unscathed after such a horrid encounter.  The perfect hex came to mind, a fake fire spell she had learned from Kadin, if she could just match the incantation with the wand movement …

  Clutching her wand tightly beneath the folds of her robe, Serra strode to the door, murmuring the spell under her breath as she pulled it open.  There was a loud gasp, and from the corner of her eye Serra saw Snape jump back in shock as the surface of his desk was engulfed in flames.  It worked!  Suppressing a laugh, she tore off down the hall fast as she could.

 

Freshly washed and wrapped in a fluffy white Hogwarts towel, Serra was still laughing at the success of her spell and the startled expression on Snape’s face at the spontaneous combustion of his work area when the very professor himself burst into the room.  Serra was too stunned by his sudden appearance in the girls’ baths to even be scared when Snape seized her upper arm, his black eyes blazing like the flames on his desk.

“Though that was funny, did you, Miss Lillas?” hissed Snape.

“No, I thought it would earn me friends,” said Serra in quiet sarcasm, calmly staring up into Snape’s livid face.

“It has earned you a week of detention,” Snape snarled, and his grip tightened to further accentuate his anger.

“You’re going to bruise my arm,” said Serra, as if deaf to Snape’s pronouncement.

In testament to just how concerned he was with Serra’s physical well-being, Snape squeezed her all the more, perhaps hoping to feel bones cracking.

“If that’s all the damage you sustain after the next week with me, I will be most disappointed.  I am your professor; you will learn your place at this school,” said Snape.

“If you think you’re going to force my respect and submission through domineering punishments, you will be most disappointed,” Serra countered.  “You can put me in detention every night for the rest of the year, but you will never make me respect you.”

“We shall see.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, late last night I was laying in bed when suddenly it struck me: "Hey, it's Thursday! Update day! Darn it!" In fact, it was so late by the time I realized it was Thursday that it may not have actually been Thursday anymore. Sigh.
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> This chapter is definitely MA/Explicit.

The common room Monday night was abuzz with chatter.  The main topic of conversation seemed to be who would make this year’s Quidditch team, the tryouts for which would be held the following weekend.  Not being much into sports, this held little interest to Serra.  She also overheard a small group of fifth year girls discussing a particularly difficult essay assigned to them in History of Magic, and already her fellow seventh years were bemoaning the absurd amount of homework they’d been given in their various lessons.  She also noticed that the only one who seemed to be doing anything about this burden was Hermione, who was sitting at a near-by table with Harry and Ron, pouring over three different text books and busily scratching away on a roll of parchment.

From her chair in the corner, Serra gazed absently at the three.  It struck her then how watching them reminded her of the trio she used to be part of, which fate had reduced to two.  She thought longingly of her own boyfriend, how much fun it would have been attending school with him instead of all alone, like she was now.  So long did she gaze, lost in her memories, that Harry took notice, and Serra was quite embarrassed to discover herself staring at him so blatantly.  She flushed, but Harry only smiled.

“You have detention with Snape again tonight, right?” said Harry, causing both Ron and Hermione to look over at Serra also.

“Yeah, at seven,” Serra replied with a nod.  “I’d better go soon.”  She stood up and brushed down her robe.  “Wish me luck,” she added dryly, wondering what disgusting task the potions master had planned for her tonight.

“Good luck.”

It wasn’t Harry who called after her, but Ron.  Serra grinned at the thought of the look he must be enduring from Hermione right now.

The air in the dungeons this evening smelled blessedly pure — as pure as damp, dungeon air could be, anyway.  Still, even if the project Snape had in store for Serra to slave away at for the next few hours didn’t stink, there had to be something unpleasant about it, guaranteed.  Fish eyes on Friday, armadillo livers Saturday, milking poisonous vipers Sunday — whatever Snape threw at her tonight, Serra knew she could handle it.

Upon entering the potions dungeon, however, her confidence shattered.

Spiders.

Barely suppressing a shudder, Serra stared at the four huge jars on her desk, each of them filled to the brim with thousands of spiders.  Behind his own desk Snape eyed Serra, a vicious sneer on his thin lips.  Serra met his gaze and walked right up to the table, refusing to let him see even the slightest hint of fear.  She wouldn’t let him win.

“Miss Lillas,” Snape said softly, “How nice of you to join me.  You are familiar with the common garden spider, are you not?”  He motioned to the glass jars and Serra gave a jerky nod, unwilling to look down.

“Our younger classes use them in several concoctions,” Snape went on smoothly.  “They will be using them tomorrow, in fact.  But as you can see, the most recent apothecary shipment has yet to be divided into individual portions.”

“Since when do you divide your regents into individual portions?” Serra asked, her voice hard as ice to hide the quaking in her chest.

“Since we have you to do it.”  Snape smiled heinously.  “You will take these jars” — he waved a hand over the large containers — “and divvy their contents into these” — motioning to a box full of jam-sized glasses on the floor.  “It should be an easy enough undertaking, yes?”

“Yes, sir.”  Serra had to force the words from her dry throat.  Steeling herself, she took off the lid of the closest jug, but her heart quailed when she actually looked down at the nightmarish creatures: fat, round bodies, tiny heads, spindly legs and legs and legs …

“Where might I find gloves?” she asked, looking back up much too quickly with eyes that were much too wide.

Snape gazed at her, his countenance morphing into the perfect likeness of a demonic leer.  “Oh, I don’t think gloves will be necessary.”

Serra thought she might vomit right then.

Slowly, taking as much time as possible, she took all the smaller jars out of the box — far more than could possibly be needed for any of Snape’s classes — and lined them across the tables.  Only when every one of them sat out ready to be filled did Serra return to the dreadful pots on her own desk.

_Oh, God, no, I can’t do this, I can’t do this_ , Serra’s mind screamed.  Her heart now lodged somewhere above her collar bones, choking out her windpipe and making it hard to swallow.  Then, after glimpsing Snape’s gloating face, Serra raised a hand to the open container.  She couldn’t stop the shaking, or the tears that prickled in her eyes when her flesh touched the creepy beasts — soft, smooth bodies and dry, scratchy thoraxes and legs.  They were dead, true, but that didn’t lessen Serra’s horror at having to stick her fingers into the jar and pull out a handful of spiders.

Four handfuls per jar times hundreds of jars …  Serra only managed by fixing her thoughts on her papa back home.  She imagined him standing over her with that no-nonsense scowl: no blubbering allowed.  She imagined that Kadin was there with his best mate Gabriel and that they were both cheering her on.

Her imaginings came to an abrupt halt by something she didn’t imagine: the eerie tickle of one of the spiders scuttling up her arm.  One of the ghastly critters was alive!

Serra shrieked, jerking her arm back and flinging her hand back and forth to lob the spider off of her.  The huge jar she’d been working from lurched over, spilling an avalanche of spiders onto Serra’s robe and burying her feet under an arachnid mountain.  Now utterly terrified, Serra leapt back, hitting the desk behind her with enough force to knock it down.  Undeterred, she scampered farther away, shaking out her robe and screaming all the while.

Snape watched this spectacle with a dark delight on his features, doing nothing to intervene.  Only when Serra had backed completely to the door, still twitching in fright and suddenly brushing now and again at random parts of her body, did he speak.

“Have we a slight phobia of spiders, Miss Lillas?” he asked quietly, peering across the jumble of arachnids carpeting the floor.

Still painfully shaken, Serra said nothing.  She knew she’d never live this performance down, but she hadn’t been able to help it.  When that spider started up her arm … She shuddered again.

“Clean up this mess,” Snape ordered.  “Then you will begin again.”

Serra stared at the professor in sick disbelief.  He was serious, of course.  He fully expected her to reenter that hellish wreckage and start collecting handfuls of spiders again.

Clenching her teeth painfully, Serra nodded once and stiffly marched back toward the arachnid pile.  It took her several minutes to force her hands back into the grisly mass, and this time she could not stop the tears from escaping down her cheeks.

 

 

 

Snape sat at his desk in the potions classroom.  He looked forward to the detention he was to oversee this evening; specifically he looked forward to seeing Serra Lillas and her reaction to his latest chore.  How gratifying it had been to witness the haughty girl break down in tears.  Well, she hadn’t quite dissolved into sobs, no, but a few tears did spill.  It only took four days to discover her secret weak spot, and how worth it!  Spiders, of all things.  Such a silly fear, but one so easily exploited.

The past three nights featured the eight-legged varmints; after Serra’s glorious collapse during Monday’s detention, Snape had gone out of his way to acquire a hundred dried fire tarantulas, each larger than a dinner plate, from which Serra spent the whole of Tuesday night scraping off hair.  Wednesday she skinned the apple-sized abdomens of dozens of giant Kimura spiders under the guise that the innards would be useful in several potions — and they probably would be, though not in any potion Snape intended to make.

During these subsequent punishments Serra unfortunately held up quite well, but underneath that collected exterior Snape knew she cringed.  He wanted her to cringe.  He wanted her to shudder and recoil, to despise him and her experience here at Hogwarts so much that she would leave.

Damn girl!  Damn Tasgall and his ludicrous warnings!  The subliminal effects of the old man’s musings turned out to be worse than if Tasgall had just kept his fool mouth shut, for that very night in the Leaky Cauldron had been the start of the dreams: Serra in that black dress, taking _off_ that black dress and enticing Snape into various amorous encounters.  He would wake up desperately humping the bed like a horny teenage boy, wanting her and hating her and unbearably frustrated because he would _not_ indulge himself while the image of a student paraded in his mind’s eye.  Not every night, but frequently enough to arise in Snape a fierce loathing for the girl.

The start of classes failed to bring about the change Snape hoped for — to see Serra Lillas sitting among the other students, dressed in black robes and one of _them_.  She was one of them, but at the same time she wasn’t, thanks to Erus Tasgall’s insinuating inferences.  So Snape needed to make her _less_.  He wanted no reason or opportunity to admire whatever abilities she might have.

But that damn girl had put up with every cruelty, every unfairness he administered; even when the retaliations began Serra still managed to slip Snape that wanton smile, like she secretly drew some amusement from their confrontations.  It was a real-life representation of the dream smile that in the dark of night dared Snape to hike up that black dress and take her — on his desk, in his private chambers here, his bed back home … in whatever setting the reverie imagined them.

Now, however … now that smile was gone.  Serra sat through her classes white-faced and silent.  When she acted out — and she hadn’t stopped acting out: only two days ago the conniving girl had turned his cauldron into a sieve, saying only, “Professor, I think your cauldron has sprung a leak,” in a cold, unfeeling voice.  Snape had turned around to see the Anti-Coagulate Serum he’d been making spewing from tens of holes in the pot, and decided right then to quit the ‘beneficial’ displays of his potion-brewing abilities during class.

But a new hardness reflected on the girl’s face when she acted out now, and that Snape could handle.  Anger, resentment, hatred — all of these emotions he could deal with.  They siphoned the passion from his fantasy encounters with Serra.  Why, if this kept up he probably could handle a year of classes with her.  Of course, if it did keep up, Serra would likely be expelled for misbehavior, and that was fine too.

The probable outcome, Snape grudgingly acknowledged, was that Professor McGonagall would step in on Serra’s behalf.  Minerva already freely made known her opinion of Snape’s treatment of Serra thus far; she seemed to think his continual docking of house points from Serra to be excessive, as if Serra’s behavior hadn’t merited every single one.  It had been Minerva’s intervention that kept Snape _only_ docking house points thus far instead of assigning Serra detentions right from the start, and it had been Minerva’s duty as Serra’s Head of House to speak to the petulant girl about the unacceptable behavior earning her such penalties.  But the meddlesome woman refused to do any such thing, claiming that in Minerva’s class Serra was a model student and stating plainly her belief that Snape himself must be exaggerating to get the girl in trouble; though why he would behave so pettily, she had no idea.

The audacity!  If Minerva McGonagall could forgo her responsibility in instructing Miss Lillas on appropriate behavior toward her instructors, Severus Snape could ignore her opinions regarding Serra’s punishments and give the girl detention every day for the remainder of her stay at Hogwarts — not long, Snape guessed, if he kept to this particular vein of torment.

Of tonight’s detention task Snape was especially proud: milking venom from five Guatemalan Hissing Spiders.  Five wire cages covered Serra’s desk, each one holding its own vibrantly painted, eight-legged terror.  If dead spiders frightened her, how might she react to these live ones?  Snape waited in anticipation.  Perhaps she would scream again …

Serra arrived promptly at seven.  She opened the door and took one step inside before really taking note of the arachnid visitors, which began hissing fiercely upon seeing her, clicking their glistening chelicerae menacingly.  The little color remaining in her cheeks drained away.  Serra stepped back, catching the door as it swung shut.  Behind the gruesome quintuplet, Snape greeted her with a broad, contemptuous smile.  Serra stared at him for a moment, her eyes wintery planes of disgust.

“Fuck you,” she declared coolly, holding Snape’s gaze just a second longer before she turned and walked out.

Snape, alone again with the vulturine spiders, watched the door close, brows raised in consideration.  Then he grinned.  That had gone better than expected.

 

 

 

With a shaky fist Serra knocked on Professor McGonagall’s door.  Her body still trembled uncontrollably from fear and rage.  She’d had enough of that man and his contrivances.

“Miss Lillas?”  McGonagall looked Serra over, instantly aware that something was very wrong.  She stepped back and waved an arm, gazing at her anxiously.  “Come in; tell me what’s happened.”

“I’ve just walked out on a detention with Professor Snape,” Serra said as soon as the door closed.  Might as well get the most immediate concern out of the way.

Eyes widened slightly in shock, McGonagall returned to her desk and sat stiffly.  The shock quickly turned to disapproval.

“Miss Lillas, surely you realize that is grounds for suspension?  I have stepped in on your behalf several times now in regards to your behavior in Professor Snape’s classes, but with this —”

“It doesn’t matter,” Serra interrupted, causing McGonagall’s disapproving expression to deepen.

“It most certainly does matter,” the stern professor ejected.

Serra shook her head, the trembling easing up as her decision solidified.  “No, ma’am, it doesn’t, because I am leaving this school.  I will pack tonight and take the train home tomorrow.”  She said this firmly, making clear that her mind was already made up.  “As my Head of House I thought it only proper to inform you first.  I shall visit the headmaster next.”

“Miss Lillas, don’t you think this is an overreaction to the situation?”  McGonagall obviously did not take her statement seriously.  “Whatever happened tonight, I’m sure we can work it out.  Perhaps suspension can be deferred this once.  Professor Snape might require an apology, but I’m certain —”

Serra laughed harshly.  “An apology?  I will not apologize to that bastard for anything!”

“Miss Lillas,” McGonagall gasped angrily, “Control your tongue and show some respect!”

“Show some respect for whom?” Serra challenged just as angrily.  “Professor Snape?  I have no reason to respect him.”

“He is your teacher!” McGonagall countered sharply, even standing to her feet to accentuate her objection.

“No,” Serra rebutted, dropping her voice.  “For that man to be my teacher he would have had to _teach_ me something, and he has not.  My master discussed with Headmaster Dumbledore the curriculum here, that the Potions courses were far beneath the level I was at with Erus Tasgall.  Headmaster assured us Professor Snape would alter my lessons, but he has not.  In fact, he has gone out of his way to make my classes with him as miserable as possible.  I am tired of playing along with his games.  I wish to become a great apothecary like my master, and I am wasting my time here with that man when I could be studying under Erus Tasgall.  I won’t do it anymore.  I am going home.”

The anger in McGonagall’s features dissipated and she crossed round her desk to face Serra.  When she spoke her voice was almost kind.

“Serra, I know why Erus Tasgall sent you here; I know of your fiancé and the … the way his death was discovered.”

Serra took a long breath and turned to stare at the wall.  She’d repeated the lie of seventh-year ‘official’ schooling to so many people that it almost began to sound true.  It was foolish, of course: no school could possibly teach her more than the best apothecary in the wizarding world, the same man she’d studied under for the past thirteen years.  As for N.E.W.T.s, she easily could have taken them at Hogwarts without spending the year here, just as she had taken her O.W.L.s at Durmstrang.  But the story was necessary unless she wanted to go around telling people that she had so much trouble getting over her fiancé’s death that her parents and master eventually decided a complete change of scenery was needed.

Cue Hogwarts enrollment.

“Who else knows besides Headmaster Dumbledore?”  Serra couldn’t bring herself to look at Professor McGonagall.  “Professor Snape?”

“No, only myself and the headmaster.  Professor Dumbledore encouraged Erus Tasgall to tell Professor Snape since he would have you in so many classes, but Erus Tasgall did not think sharing such sensitive information would benefit your relationship with Professor Snape.  I happen to agree.”

More silence.  At least Snape couldn’t use that against her, Serra thought gratefully.  Had he gone that route, Serra probably would have hit him.

“Do you really think Erus Tasgall will accept you returning home so soon?” McGonagall asked gently.

Still inspecting the wall, Serra said nothing.  No, of course her master wouldn’t accept this.  Neither would her parents.  Even Gabriel, the only other friend she had besides Kadin, agreed this hiatus was the best thing for Serra.  Even though he loved her and missed her dearly, he too would be disappointed by the stalemate.

“Master Tasgall may not like it,” Serra finally replied carefully, “but he will understand.  The current situation is not what we agreed upon.”

Now McGonagall was silent for many minutes, contemplating Serra’s answer.  Serra felt the professor examining her, and she stood calmly and with as much humility as she could submit.  With McGonagall, at least, Serra chanced a fair judgment.

“You will not be leaving Hogwarts until Headmaster Dumbledore and I have thoroughly discussed the options with Erus Tasgall,” McGonagall said at long last.  “I will bring the matter to the headmaster tonight.  Rest assured you will be informed as soon as a decision is made, likely by the start of next week, I expect.”

Serra nodded, though this arrangement frustrated her greatly.

“Moreover,” continued McGonagall, “as your Head of House I, not Professor Snape, have ultimate control over your punishments.  Any pending detentions with him are cancelled until further notice.  While I understand your resentment of his treatment of you, do try to restrain yourself from disrupting class.  There is no doubt in my mind that you will receive N.E.W.T.s in all your potions courses even without Professor Snape’s guidance; please allow your fellow classmates the same opportunity.”

 

 

 

_Stalking down darkened hallways, enraged; searching for that girl, that little delinquent who made a fool of him by setting his desk aflame with fake fire.  He came to a door, raised his wand to negate the password spell.  Light flooded his vision when he barreled through; fuzzy, misted light. The atmosphere was warm and humid.  Sudsy remains of a recent bath clung to the large, pool-like tub in the center of the room._

_And there was his prey._

_Snape seized her arm and furiously whirled her around.  As Serra stared up at him, stunned by his sudden appearance, Snape realized the arm he held was bare.  Her shoulders were bare; tiny, glistening droplets still clinging to her just-washed collarbones.  Only a white towel covered her body and that only because she held it up with her free arm._

_“Thought that was funny, did you, Miss Lillas?” he demanded, his voice so cold it ought to have clouded his breath._

_“No.”  The shock was gone from Serra’s countenance._   _Her expression darkened and her lips curved into a sly, knowing smile.  “I thought it would make you hunt me down in the girls’ baths.”_

_The air suddenly seemed thicker.  Snape’s mouth filled with saliva as he looked down at the barely dressed young woman who gazed up at him brazenly.  Instantly sporting an impossible hard-on, his previous line of thought fizzled out._

_Serra exuded something … something invisible, but somehow clearly there; Snape watched it pouring off her skin, like the sublimation of dry ice.  It clung to his hand where he clung to her arm; it skimmed down her face and neck, ran off her shoulders; below the towel it hovered around her legs and feet.  In fact, the only place it couldn’t be seen was where the towel covered her body and, oddly enough, her hair.  Snape stared at this phenomenon, entranced at the mystic beauty of the vapor that appeared to emanate from her very pores._

_“You’re going to bruise my arm,” Serra murmured softly, her dark eyes flickering momentarily down to where Snape still clutched her firmly.  “In fact, if you don’t let go I might …”_

_With a coy shrug Serra released the towel.  It fell in a circle around her bare feet, and Snape’s eyes fell with it, taking in the full length of her nudity.  Now the strange mist about her took on a life of its own, reaching out in tendrils to pull at his clothing.  Serra turned into him, clasping her body against Snape’s as she lovingly watched the vaporous claws work their magic.  His robe was gone; his shirt and trousers were being plucked at from all around._

_Snape had no more interest in getting away — if he ever had at all.  Releasing his grip on her arm, he let his hands run over her smooth skin, down her back; circling her waist and helping her when she rose onto her toes to reach his mouth with her own.  She tasted mildly sweet, and Snape could feel the same curious sublimation in her mouth, giving him a heady, drunken feeling.  As they kissed he became aware of her breasts pressed against his chest, her slender legs entwined with his: more clothing had vanished._

_Serra, however, did not wait for the completion of the process, seizing the band of his boxers and easing it down over his bulging erection.  He moaned when a hand gripped his member, squeezing as it slid up and down the shaft just once, leaving his groin positively screaming in hungry desperation._

_“What are you waiting for, Professor?” Serra whispered, her lips now teasing his neck while she guided his hand down between her legs.  “I’ve been a bad girl …”_

_Oh, she was so wet.  Snape easily slid a finger inside Serra’s tight crevasse and she whimpered, grabbing his hand and shoving the finger deeper with a needful insistence that mirrored his own._

_“You have been bad,” Snape murmured huskily.  He bent slightly, clutching the backs of her thighs and lifting her off the floor.  Serra gasped, wrapping her legs around Snape’s waist, and Snape carried her to the nearest wall, just a few steps away.  He pinned her between himself and the tile, flashing a dark smirk before bowing his head to her breasts, lips pinching her nipples, sucking them into his mouth in turn, teasing her with gentle and not-so-gentle nips until Serra urged his hips forward with her legs, anxiously rubbing his cock against the delicate contours between her spread thighs._

_“Let me have it, Professor,” she panted.  “Give it to me hard.”_

_His shaft slid into her as easily as his finger had, causing Serra to cry out in pleasure.  She was so tight, so tight …  Snape thrust into her again, watching her breasts bounce; and again, hearing her moans in his ear: yes, Professor, yes, don’t stop, don’t stop …_

_Pumping his hips fervently, Snape ran his cock through her taunt embrace repeatedly, bringing himself to the very limits of ecstasy, any moment now ready to erupt.  He leaned forward, searching for her lips, gasping her name as rapture overtook him …_

_… Serra, yes, yes_ —                                                       

 

“— Serra —”

The sound of Snape’s own voice woke him to darkness.  The girls’ bath had vanished along with the girl.  Snape flopped over onto his back and groaned.  His boxers were wet: what he’d refused to do himself his body had done for him.  Damn it.  Damn that girl.  Damn it all.

He climbed out of bed, stripping off the soiled shorts and thinking that at least now he would have a few nights’ peace.

 

 

The last person Snape wanted to see Friday morning was Serra Lillas.  At breakfast Professor McGonagall informed him that, rather than being suspended for ditching the previous night’s detention, as Serra’s Head of House she was cancelling all further detentions for Miss Lillas and ordering Snape not to take any house points from Tasgall’s little pet until Dumbledore told him otherwise.  Snape listened to this pronouncement, his anger growing fiercer by the second, determined to speak to Dumbledore and find out what the hell was going on here.

So when Serra showed up at his office before first period asking permission to use certain regents for an important potion she needed to brew, Snape’s answer came without hesitation.

“No.”  He did not even raise his head, unwilling to look at the girl who seduced Snape in his dreams.  “If it was such an important potion, you should have brought some with you.”

“I did,” Serra snapped.  “I accidentally spilled it this morning.”  The irritation in her voice at having to confess to such clumsiness lifted Snape’s mood slightly.

“Well, then, I guess you’re out of luck,” he replied smoothly.  “Good day, Miss Lillas.”

Serra stayed put.  Snape heard her fumbling through her books as if looking for something, and then a sheet of parchment dropped over the book he pretended to be reading: a note from Professor McGonagall, as Deputy Headmistress, ordering Snape to allow Serra the use of whatever regents she needed.  Scowling, Snape finally turned his full attention to Serra.

“Why didn’t you present the note first?” he demanded, rising from his chair.

“I rather hoped you might not be so petty as to need it.”  Serra stared at him coldly, clutching her books to her abdomen in an odd manner, almost as if she was in pain.

Snape shot her a scathing glare.  He hoped she was in pain.  A lot of pain.  He jerked his head toward his potion cabinet.

“Get what you need and —”  ‘Get out’ had been on the tip of his tongue.  Then inspiration struck, and Snape said instead, “bring it here.  You will not take any regents from this room.  Whatever this crucial serum is, you can brew it in here.”

Now Serra scowled, locking her eyes with Snape’s.

“Fine.”  She dropped her books in the chair across from Snape’s desk and began gathering what she needed — cauldron, measures, scales and an array of ingredients.  Snape declined to help even when it became obvious that Serra was indeed in pain, though she vainly tried to hide it.  When she set up at his desk, first chopping a large quantity of yarrow, Snape lounged in his chair and watched.

Serra ignored him.

“You know,” he pointed out snidely after a thorough inspection of the regents Serra laid out, “Madame Pomfrey has potions for menstrual cramps.”  The flush that rose to Serra’s cheeks at this statement stood out markedly against her white face.  Yes, she was in a great deal of pain, Snape realized with grim pleasure.  Good.  She could spend the whole weekend doubled over with cramps for all he cared.

“I know,” Serra muttered through clenched teeth.  “It doesn’t work for me.  Or didn’t you notice the extra regents I’m using?”

Snape merely shrugged indifferently, for a long while watching her hands as she worked.  They shook ever so slightly when she added various ingredients to the simmering cauldron.  Then he realized he was looking for that strange vaporous halo from last night’s dream and quickly averted his eyes.  Could that have been what Erus Tasgall mentioned, that _something_ about Serra?  If so, what was it?  What caused —

Snape shook his head as if to shake the thoughts away.  How had he come to be musing over the old wizard’s crackpot theories like they could possibly be true?  Clearly his subconscious had added that bit in _because_ of Tasgall’s suggestion.

At the desk Serra’s potion was completed, or Snape assumed it must be since she took long draughts straight from the ladle (her color improved almost immediately).  When she finally began transferring the solution from the cauldron to a bottle, Snape impatiently stepped in and used his wand to complete the transfer, shoving the full bottle at Serra and ordering her to leave.  He couldn’t stand her presence for one more minute.

 

Ignoring Serra during class ended up being the best way to get through that afternoon’s Advanced Potions.  Since Snape held no more power over her whatsoever — no docking points, no assigning detentions — there was little reason to goad her; and without provocation, Serra ignored Snape as well.  The silent standoff between the two lasted until the following Monday, when Snape again caught the insufferable girl altering the in-class assignment.

“Miss Lillas,” Snape said coldly, staring down at Serra’s perfect potion with skepticism; the whole class growing quiet and turning to watch in nervous anticipation; “are you following exactly the instructions in the book?”

Anger etched across Serra’s face.  Grabbing a handful of scarab wings from the pouch beside her, Serra looked defiantly up at Snape and continued looking as she crushed them in her fist and dumped the lot into her cauldron.

“No, I guess not,” she said shortly.  The potion turned a venomous shade of greenish yellow and drained right out the bottom of the cauldron, through the table and onto the floor.

“Oh, damn, my mistake,” Serra added flatly, glancing briefly at her ruined potion which was now hissing and spitting as it did its best to digest the stone flooring.  She stared back up at Snape, ignoring the gasps from the students around the room.

Snape’s eyes flashed angrily, but his face was still and calm.  Enough of this blatant flaunting of his authority.  He spoke in a low, deadly voice.  “You will clean up this mess, Miss Lillas, and then report to my office immediately after class.”  Then he turned and strode away, furious at her insolence, furious that he could not effectively punish her.  The lecture Snape began dictating in his mind fell far short of what Serra deserved.  Filtch probably kept something more suitable in his office — Snape recalled the cantankerous caretaker mentioning thumbscrews and lashings at some point … 

Still, when Serra dutifully appeared in Snape’s office after the bell dismissed class, lecturing was all he had to work with.

“You seem to think that you are special, Miss Lillas,” Snape began, standing rigidly behind his desk; “that you are better than your fellow classmates.  But you are not.”

Serra did not so much as flinch beneath the callous gaze of Professor Snape.  “You're wrong,” she said in a coldly determined manner.  “I am better than them and you know it.”  Sorting through her school texts, Serra pulled out her three Potions books.  “I can make every one of the potions in your textbooks.  I don't even need them — I have them memorized.”  She threw the books down on Snape's desk and they skidded to a halt in front of him.

“I don't like you,” Serra went on, “and you don't like me, but that is a childishly petty reason to discount my abilities, Professor.”

With that Serra stormed from Snape's office, nearly colliding with Headmaster Dumbledore who was waiting just outside.

“Excuse me, I'm sorry sir,” said Serra in a tense, low voice, pausing to accept his disapproval at her outburst, which he surely must have heard.

To Serra's surprise, and Snape’s supreme annoyance, Dumbledore merely smiled at her through his white beard.

“Not at all, my dear,” said Dumbledore kindly, ushering Serra past before stepping inside Snape's office himself.

Dumbledore closed the door and gazed steadily at Snape, who was positively fuming over the audacity of Serra’s words and Dumbledore’s non-reaction to them.

“Trouble with your new student?” asked Dumbledore redundantly, taking the chair opposite Snape’s desk.  When Snape did not answer, Dumbledore said in a quiet but clear voice, “I agree with Miss Lillas.  She has great talent which you seem determined not to expand.  I would think you would be pleased to have such a gifted pupil.”

"She is arrogant and impertinent,” said Snape angrily.  “She has no respect for authority.”

“Fortunately, you are the only one who feels that way,” said Dumbledore with a twinkle in his eyes.  “Minerva and Pomona are delighted by Serra's performance thus far.”

Resisting a glower, Snape said, “They are too easy on her.  I have spoken to Minerva about Serra's behavior and she refuses to punish her adequately.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly.  “And Minerva has spoken to me about your — ah — _concern_ for Serra's behavior.  Perhaps it is you, Severus, who is too easy on the girl.  I recall suggesting, before the start of the year, that you arrange extra lessons for Serra to further challenge her abilities, yet you have not even considered it.  While the way Serra has chosen to lash out may not be entirely proper of a student to her professor,” Dumbledore went on, “I admit I can hardly blame her.  This — Potions — is what she desires to master.  She gave up her position under Erus Tasgall, one of the best Apothecaries in the wizarding world, to come here, only to find her capable Potions master not willing to teach her any more than she already knows.”

Unable to refute any of this, Snape said nothing.

“She wanted to leave the school, you know, as I’m sure was your intention when you began incorporating spiders into all of Serra’s detentions.”  Dumbledore gazed at Snape with the slightest hint of reproach.

“You should let her leave then,” Snape declared harshly.  “Let’s not fool ourselves: she will never receive here the level of training she would from Erus Tasgall.”

“Perhaps not,” the headmaster tentatively agreed; “but there are extenuating circumstances regarding Serra’s stay here at Hogwarts.”

“Why am I not privy to these circumstances?”

“They do not concern you.  If Serra herself wishes to inform you of them, that is completely within her right, of course.”  Dumbledore stated this as if he knew perfectly well the unlikelihood of it happening.  “For now, let us just say that it is in Serra’s best interest to remain here, and as William’s friend I intend to assist in whatever way I can.”

“ _I_ am not William’s friend,” Snape protested bitterly.

“So," said Dumbledore calmly as if Snape hadn’t spoken at all, “since Serra only has disciplinary troubles in your classes and you are essentially the only professor who will be able to advance her already remarkable skills, I am going to make an unprecedented change to your status.”  Dumbledore paused to allow these words to sink in before continuing.

“I have been communicating with William Tasgall about the situation, and also Minerva, and the solution we have decided upon, although radical, I believe will be for the best.  Therefore, I am officially placing Serra Lillas under your direct authority.  She will remain in the Gryffindor house, but as of now she is your charge.  You are free to discipline her in whatever manner you deem fit.  Be as easy or as hard on her as you like.  But,” he added firmly, “you may not suspend or expel her."

_So thumbscrews are still an option_ , Snape thought rashly, _along with chaining her to the wall_ — this brought such vivid images to Snape’s mind that he dropped his gaze lest Dumbledore see in his eyes the indecorous fantasy playing out there.

 “William preferred that you tell her yourself,” said Dumbledore, his blue robes swaying about him as he stood.  “You should do so tonight.”  He opened the door and then looked back at the soured professor with a smile.  “And I expect you to begin modifying Serra’s assignments, and to arrange those extra lessons at least twice a week.”

That impudent girl, solely his responsibility, thought Snape scathingly, watching Dumbledore exit.  Plus extra lessons with her.  As if it wasn’t trying enough dealing with Serra already, now to be forced to spend even more time with her.  

But wait — Snape had complete authority over her now.  _Complete authority …_ The phrase had a promising ring.  It was he and the girl — no one to mediate.  He _could_ give Serra detention every night of the week if he so chose, and there was no one to override him.  He could go on making her hate him, erasing completely that taunting grin. 

An evil smile stole over Snape's pallid features.  Perhaps this was not as bad as it first seemed …

 

After dinner Snape summoned Serra back to his office.  In the hours that had passed since his new appointment over her, he had become much more amenable to the idea.  The first reward he expected to glean from this additional post was witnessing firsthand the girl’s likely horrified reaction to the news.  Though, of course, she would probably pretend she didn’t care … but he would not be fooled.  Yes, Snape was now very much looking forward to enlightening Serra to his change of station.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” said Serra coolly, when Snape had granted her entrance to his office.  She did not sit, and Snape did not invite her to.  Instead, he looked her over, again savoring the indignant outburst that was sure to come at his disclosure, which he would happily counter with detention.

He smiled most unpleasantly.

“The headmaster has discussed your egregious behavior thus far with Professor McGonagall, your Head of House, and Erus Tasgall.”  Snape paused, inspecting Serra for the slightest hint of apprehension, but she remained quite impassive, merely staring at Snape silently.  So he continued.

“The headmaster has, in accordance with the others, seen fit to place complete power and authority over you in my hands.  You are,” he concluded, “entirely and unequivocally under my control.”

This statement fell miserably short of causing the desired effect Snape had hoped for.  In fact, it seemed to come as no surprise at all to Serra; he may well have told her owls delivered mail.

“Do you understand what I’ve just told you?” he snapped.

Staring at Snape emotionless, Serra nodded once.  “Yes, I think I do.  The others are stepping away.  Master Tasgall has given me over to you.”  The slightest wrinkle showed between her brows, the only sign of distress on her part.  Then it smoothed out and she said quietly, “It’s only logical, don’t you think?”

Snape blinked once slowly and considered the young woman.  For once she was not being sarcastic in the least; no coy smile played on her lips and no anger sounded in her voice.  The change from her normal attitude was remarkable, and somewhat unsettling.  It was almost like she had given up.  Snape found it a bit disconcerting.

“If I must stay here — and it seems I must,” she injected dispiritedly; “You are the only professor in this school who can advance me in my chosen area of study,” Serra went on, softly but matter-of-factly.  “It is you I most want to learn from.”

Well, thought Snape, if she truly wished to advance her talents, she should never have left her master.

“You should go right back to Erus Tasgall,” said Snape coldly.

“I would,” Serra stated plainly, “but Erus Tasgall sent me to you.”

“I am not half as talented as he is.”

“You’re not half as old as he is,” countered Serra in a quiet voice.  “When you have matched his age, you will have matched his talent also.”

Such an opinion from this girl came as an unexpected intrusion in Snape’s ears.  Who was she to make such a statement to him?  As if he had come to her for assurance of his abilities …

“You are brilliant, you know,” she added.

To this statement, Snape found he had no response.  It was not flattery, for the almost naïve honesty was clearly evident in her manner.  It had the unintended effect of favorably altering Snape’s impression of Serra Lillas, however slightly, and also creating an awkwardness in him that he was not used to.  It was not every day, or even every year, for that matter, that a student so caught him off guard with a compliment — let alone the one student he’d been making love to in his dreams for nearly three weeks now.  He was debating the best way to handle it, either with a scathing retort on how she was not adequately disposed to make such a judgment, or simply ignoring it, when Serra took the burden away from him altogether by saying, “May I go now, sir?  I have a lot of homework to catch up on.”

“Yes, you are dismissed,” said Snape with a curt nod.

Serra took leave with a gracious ‘good evening, sir’, and once alone Snape pressed his palms together, staring at the charred logs in the fireplace and contemplating the young woman.  The whole interview transpired very, very differently than he had pictured.  The girl’s entire attitude toward him … it had changed in some way.  She did not like this arrangement — had she not stated flat out that she would rather return home to Erus Tasgall?  But, as she put it, Tasgall had given her over to Snape.  And she did not second guess her master.

So … did that mean he, Severus Snape, truly was her master now?  He had rashly accepted the position before, spurred on by anger that night in the inn with no intention of actually following through.  But now… had Tasgall — that conniving old wizard — managed to get his way yet again?  Working up the proper amount of indignation toward the scheming elder proved rather difficult just now, however.  Something about the way Serra had interacted with Snape … the sincerity in her face, the raw, genuine honesty … like she was ready to accept his authority at last.

And yet, Snape felt less inclined than ever to subjugate her.


End file.
